Immovable Object
by Aroihkin
Summary: What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? - The Warden is not a pretty girl. What she is, is physically disabled and just a bit screwed up in the head. Zevran tries to find solid footing in the chaos, but with how much success?
1. The Point of Impact

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 03.25.2010:

I've been getting little ideas, with no real specific PC in mind most of the time. Because I'd like to link them all (or almost all) together, and it's easier with an origin to work off of, I went with city elf. It's the origin, complete with later-game repercussions, that I'm the most familiar with.

This one... is an OC that previous readers of mine will probably recognize _very_ quickly, folded into yet another new setting. Don't worry, she's retained the broken nose and the charming disposition, as well as legendary _people skills._ I may eventually use her name, but for now I amuse myself with trying to avoid it, just like the game itself often does. Also, I haven't encountered any stories with a female elf sword-and-board _tank_ yet, and no real accounts of anyone playing it either... it's also not something seen much (at all?) in-game, that I can recall.

I won't be sticking to this narration style, probably. Opinion request: should I post individual bits as individual stories, particularly as the writing-style is subject to change, or should I make this multi-chapter even if things jump around in order? I'm not intending to make this one big re-telling of the game; only writing what comes to mind and mostly in the order it comes to mind _in..._

Reviews are loved forever and ever.

- - - - -  
**"What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?"**  
-- irresistible force paradox

When you hear that your targets are apparently an ex-Templar man and an elven woman, you expect certain things of the group your mage -- helpless damsel! Help, help! -- leads up the road at a calculated run. You expect the human man to be in heavy armor, carrying a shield and a sword, like any good would-be Templar. Certainly, you don't expect him to jump to the _side_ of the trail when the tree comes down, unhooking a longbow and knocking an arrow like he means it...

You have to expect the elf to be a delicate, pretty thing, perhaps with hard eyes, and either a bow or a pair of daggers as slender and sharp as your own. That is how they are among the Dalish, the city streets, and even the Crows, after all. And you should know, you always spot the elves in a crowd first, which is why you spot this one so quickly. You _really_ don't expect to find yourself backpedaling, just a little, at the realization of that _that_ is the elf woman, in the heavy chain mail, with the huge shield, charging _straight at you_ even as the tree crunches against the ground and the first crossbow bolts fly. You're obviously the leader -- "Grey Wardens die here!" -- of your group, and the woman with the shield is _their_ leader, and the two are destined to meet with a crunch you will surely hear for years, if you have years left to hear anything _in._

Well, you were right about the eyes, at least. You don't realize that the shield is even _harder_ than they are until it hits the side of your head, once, twice, three times precisely ten seconds later. What pair of daggers can fend _that_ off? You should have jumped from the shadows, from stealth, with poison and whispers between her shoulder-blades, not let her come at you as though you were an Ogre. Assassins are made of glass and bone, elves doubly so, just as _she_ should have been, and she's barking orders to her companions, voice carrying like thunder over the sounds of battle, terrible and harsh and not at all pretty and delicate. Something about the archers you placed on the cliff...

The sounds of battle are starting to turn into sounds of _pain_ all around you, and your vision flickers white from another blow from that blasted _shield_ that your daggers can't seem to get around. As you fall, and your vision fades to black, you think it appropriate that you've been taken out by an elven woman whose eyes gleam like cold, hard _revenge._

When you wake up later with your wrists and ankles tightly bound, even _you_ can't help but groan in disoriented pain. These Fereldans with their dogs and their mud and their thick, grey stews... it shouldn't surprise you to find an _elf_ who fights more with shield than with sword. Blunt, brutal, to the point and exceedingly painful, just like the entire dismal country. --Yes, you definitely have a concussion.

That blasted shield bites into the mud a few inches from your face as it's dropped, edge-down, and you can't help but wince at the noise it makes, steel scraping against loose stone. A gloved hand rests atop it, and its owner leans down a little to look at you, looming. It's hard to focus, because _Maker_ does the side of your head _hurt..._

"Talk," a rough voice grunts, not in the least pretty or feminine, though you can tell it's a woman's. Did she swallow hot ash? Gargle with broken glass? It sounds worse now that it isn't shouting over a battlefield. But, you realize with some dismay, you really have _nothing_ left to lose, and so talk you do.

You can barely keep track of the things you say. It goes without comment that you flirt with -- or perhaps _at_ -- your captor, even though you're having a hard time seeing much of her face. The sun is so very bright today, much more than before the concussion, and you wonder aloud if someone might turn it down a bit for you.

"Yeah," that voice replies, gloved fingers tapping one-two-three-four against the shield, and you only barely manage to avoid wincing as it feels like the tapping is _inside_ your skull, "concussions happen around me."

Your options were to die as an expendable nothing among the Crows, or to die here. Dying here was preferable -- _still_ is preferable -- and so you let your mouth run. What's the worst that could happen? She could put the rim of that shield through your throat, right here, and end it far cleaner than the Crows would. It looks heavy enough that with the strength it takes to wield it like she does, she should be able to take your head off in a few agonizing whacks from the dull edge.

It's not until the ex-Templar -- the only man in the little group, so you know it must be the other Warden -- exclaims something at her that you realize you've bargained for your life, surprisingly, and even more surprisingly she's accepted it. The gloved hand leaves the shield and draws a knife, reaching down to slit the ropes at your wrists and ankles and then offering a hand up.

Your head clears just enough to remember the vow you make as it tumbles from your lips, managing to keep your expression flat as you make an abrupt little bow at the end. Dear Maker, but your head is killing you worse than any hangover, and half your face feels swollen and stiff.

She slaps a thick poultice-pouch from her belt into your gloved hand before releasing it, and then picks up her shield and wordlessly continues walking down the road. The others stare at you for a moment, and share glances with each other as you apply the elfroot-paste to your temple and stumble along behind her. The leash is invisible, but it's there, and you prefer to keep some slack to it if you can; you have traded one servitude for another, you know, but this one surely cannot be any worse... the unknown is less frightening when the known is certain death.

At worst... perhaps you will run. And never, ever stop, lest poisoned daggers or heavy steel shields catch up to your back.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	2. Examination

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 03.26.2010:

I'm currently intending these to be mostly stand-alone bits, which may not even come out in chronological order all the time. Their link is, of course, who the Warden is... but the ideas are rarely specific enough to require it to be her. (Some will be, I'm sure, since this character is such an old OC for me, but over-all it's just easier with an ongoing PC in most cases.) This gives me a specific race, class, and personality to bounce Zevran off of, and Zev's who I'm out to write about.

For any curious, this Warden character can be seen in several of my other-fandom works, notably _Requiem for the Dream_ (Skies of Arcadia), and _The Akara Files 04: Face to Face_ (Dragonlance). She has also been in numerous roleplay settings over the years, and her first incarnation dates back to about 1995. When I was considering who to throw into the PC slot for these, she wasn't my first thought, but I haven't noticed anyone writing a Warden quite... like her, and so here we are. :)

Reviews are loved forever and ever, and ever!

- - - - -  
**You can tell more about a person by what he says about others than you can by what others say about him.**  
-- Leo Aikman

_His_ Warden. Zevran caught himself thinking of her as such within a few days of traveling with the odd group. It wasn't possessiveness, at least.... not in an emotional sense, like he'd seen in the other Warden, clinging hopelessly to the only other of his kind in the war-torn land. And it certainly wasn't out of some grandly noble ideal, as he'd seen reflected in the bard woman's occasional long, searching glances at their leader. The Qunari was perhaps the closest to his own understanding, following after the Warden in search of honor after having locked himself in a cage for having lost it.

In Zevran's case, _she_ was his ticket to possible freedom, his only damned hope of something other than a messy death, and so she was _his Warden_ just as much as she was anyone else's in the odd group of traveling strangers, whether the others liked it or not. In battle, he flanked those who attacked her first, even when arrows and bolts came his own way, and he began to brush up on his lock-picking and trap-disarming skills at every opportunity. The more useful he was, he reasoned, the easier it would be for her to justify keeping him around.

And if he could be kept around for long enough, he just might survive long enough to have a choice, for once. Not... that he was sure what he'd do with it.

Everyone in the party had a hook in _their_ Warden, it seemed, although none seemed particularly close to the hatchet-faced elven woman who they followed. Sten was the only one who sat with her at the fire, on most nights, while she nursed a tall and chipped mug of the dark herbal tea that she seemed to all but live off of, almost painfully strong even in scent with nothing to sweeten it. But even Sten would only sit with her for so long, both of them seemingly lost in their own contemplation, before he invariably moved off to the tent he'd claimed, his nightly meditations complete.

The other Warden, Alistair... he was friendly enough to her, Zevran saw, but he never lingered, either, and he almost always left for his tent before Sten moved to leave, his eyes on the ground. He was a man who had to fill silences; who vastly preferred laughter and joking over a calculating stare. The occasional amused snort or the even more occasional reply -- often witty, sometimes _poetic_, Zevran had been interested to note -- didn't seem to be enough to sustain him for long at all. No, for all his clinging to the Warden, Alistar's conversations were much more natural with the bard, and his laughter far more relaxed. The Warden was _the Warden_ to Alistair, but not... necessarily someone he would hang around with under normal, peaceful circumstances.

She spent time with Morrigan at her separate campfire, sometimes, watching the witch make poultices with that same hard-to-read stare. Zevran didn't realize, at first, that she was _curious_, not until he'd watched the group for days -- as he could, anyway -- and kept his head down and his mouth mostly... well, certainly not _shut_. He teased the bard, and the witch, and even poked at Sten a few times a day. The dog seemed to be the only one who'd easily accepted him into the group, helping himself to Zevran's pack when the elf wasn't looking. But he had more important things to be watching, like the interplay of those around him, testing the waters and learning this new situation as best as he could. There was no Master to hand him his information, now, and flying blind made this particular Crow very... nervous. But he was nothing if not a master at speaking much while actually saying very little, and so that was what he did.

And so it was several days and nights and battles of careful observation before he approached the Warden, alone, taking a seat on the other end of the same log she was sitting on at the fire. Sten had already left, and Alistair hadn't lingered long at all tonight. The Warden would be awake for a good while yet with her thoughts before leaving for her own tent, the mabari trusted to wake should anyone approach the boxed-in camp site -- and surely, his senses while dozing by the fire were at least as sharp as almost any of theirs while awake. It was certainly a part of what made him an excellent pack-burglar, save for the drool; he knew when you left your pack alone, even if he was asleep when you did so.

"..." the Warden had turned her head to watch him approach, and she eyed Zevran much as she did everyone, taking a drink from the ever-present chipped mug held between both of her gloved hands. Leather gloves, he'd noticed, despite the heavy chainmail armor and the scale boots -- someone had been having to scavenge pieces along the way. He'd never seen her without the armor, but that wasn't so strange since they'd always been on the road since his... joining the group a few days back, but even the supple leather gloves never being removed _did_ strike him as... odd. Not that he had any room to talk, of course.

Zevran offered her a brilliant smile, and was only slowly blinked at in return. He took a moment, even though this wasn't the first time he'd stared back at her. She never seemed to take offense, nor read anything into it, undoubtedly long used to it from others, and probably for unflattering reasons. The Warden was not beautiful, not even _pretty_, but... interesting to match stares with, regardless. Dark blue eyes that gave little away; skin that wasn't quite as pale as Alistair's but was still distinctly Fereldan; dark brown hair pulled back into a severe single braid and looped into a close-laying bun to facilitate a helmet... all of these would have been well and good, but there were _other_ things that drew the eye as well.

That large nose had been broken more than once, and apparently was never set quite _right_, the crooked bridge jutting down sharply as though it had lost a fight or four by itself at some point. Her lips were too thin, mouth just slightly too wide, and she bore no fetching facial tattoos like he did to accentuate and distract. She was probably from some squalid alienage, he knew, where facial tattoos were highly uncommon and highly frowned upon for the trouble they could attract from the human lords around them.

Zevran considered his next move. He was hesitant to... harass her like he did the others, who only tolerated him here because the Warden did. Too much rode entirely on her approval, and he was wise enough to know that hers was not a face used to flattery, his usual tactic. She would not charm as easily as Morrigan had for a minor bet with Alistair, who knew herself a beauty even if she acted disdainful of it. The Warden was... _not_ a beauty, and he would have had to lie through his teeth quite boldly to say otherwise. He could even imagine that she would have been at least passably pretty, were she not as battered as a dwarven battle-axe, but that did him little good here. It had likely done _her_ little good either, as an elf, and he knew it easily could even be part of_ why _she looked as she did now.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a most... interesting face, my dear Grey Warden?" Zevran asked after a few moments of this, "I cannot help but notice it when you stare at me so intently, the stories you must have to tell..."

She snorted at him -- amused, or disdainful? Zevran couldn't tell, he couldn't translate her every nuance... _yet_ -- and took a drink from her mug, still staring. "That isn't what you came over here to talk about," the Warden stated, and even though it wasn't presented as a question, he had the feeling it kind of _was_ one anyway: _what do you want to ask?_

"Oh? And why not?" he asked, leaning back a little, "I came over here to talk, and your stare is so... well, _distracting._" Zevran watched her carefully for a reaction. Would she like him to act cowed, impressed... aroused? All three at once? Human men sometimes enjoyed that combination, and he found the idea that an elven woman may as well to be... intriguing. He was nothing if not flexible, in _so_ many definitions of the term.

But to his private surprise, she simply looked away, her gaze returning to the fire as though she had taken his comment at face value and was being accommodating enough to stop staring, at least for now. Considering for only a moment, Zevran scooted several feet nearer to her on the log, though the distance between them was still quite far. He flashed her another brilliant smile when she glanced up at the movement. "I just wish to talk, my dear lady. No one here is willing to speak much to me... or am I to be a silent servant, _shunned_ and _neglected?_" At that last, he dramatically placed a gloved hand over his own chest, and raised his eyebrows for emphasis.

The Warden considered him for a moment, and then turned her gaze back to the fire again. "The others talk to you plenty."

She had a point, but... "No, they don't," Zevran sighed wistfully, and set his hands further behind himself on the log so that he could lean partially back and look up at the sky. He had to find purchase somewhere; had to find a chink in her armor so that he could worm his way in and not be cast aside to _die._ "The others respond to my prodding, but they are glad to remain strangers. I had hoped..." and he slanted her a glance, "that the woman who decided to spare my life may be a little different. Was I... wrong?"

The unspoken, _why did you spare me?_ hung in the air, or so he felt. Had their roles been reversed, she would have died, and there was no doubting it; it would have been a quick, clean kill, just as he preferred them. It made it difficult to understand _why_, even if he was understandably nervous about just all-out _asking._ At least, yet. Mercy simply did not exist among the Crows, if that was even her reason...

He was surprised to see his Warden roll her eyes, and she took another drink of her concoction, the large clay mug held between both of her gloved hands. "You're looking at the wrong Warden if you want long meaningful talks," she grunted, sounding entirely matter-of-fact about it, "I'm socially retarded."

Zevran's sudden laugh was sharp and startled, and maybe just a touch relieved. "Aren't we all?"

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	3. Fascination

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 03.28.2010:

Inspired by the LockBash mod, which among other things forces your party's rogue to trot over and pick a lock that you try to open as someone else, provided they have a high enough lockpicking to do it. It keeps you from having to switch to them for every single locked chest, etc, which is a lifesaver on my computer where the lag can get pretty incredible.

...At any rate, normally you have to get out of their way, a side-step is enough, although sometimes they'll go around your character on their own. A few times, much to my amusement, I happened to be close enough to the chest that Zev (who I turn into a lockpicking _god_ when I'm not playing a rogue myself) walked right up against my PC and picked the lock, and then just stood there looking pretty. That's one of his advertised talents, you know, looking pretty. He's very skilled at it!

And so this idea's been tickling at the back of my head for a while. It's time for some Warden-perspective anyway, I figure. She makes an amusing narrator sometimes, too.

Reviews are loved, and only touched in bad places by request.

- - - - -  
**The chains of habit are generally too small to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.**  
-- Samuel Johnson

The Warden tore her helmet free and knelt down in front of the chest to try the catch, frowning when the lid rattled but did not lift. Locked. She slumped in place for a moment, knees digging painfully into armor against the aged stone floor, trying to summon the energy to get up and seek out Zevran and his lockpicks, undoubtedly somewhere in the rather long swath of carnage the party had left in their trail. The little groups of darkspawn had just kept coming, each in sight of the next and some of them not so little, offering no time to recover in between... the path behind them was a messy one.

"Hm, perhaps I could have a try at that," the Antivan purred, suddenly _there_ as though summoned, his hot breath ghosting over the side of her neck, the warmth of a nearby body that was not _quite_ touching seeming to radiate into her back, through the plate. She jumped a little, too tired to stop the reaction, as his arms snaked _around_ her and began expertly picking the chest's lock, the tumblers and pins shifting under the long metal picks.

Zevran normally respected personal space a bit better than this, but the warrior was too tired to protest, and she watched with numb fascination as nimble gloved fingers shifted a pick this way, slid another in _here_, and another _there_... Soon enough, she heard the soft click-click of the lock releasing its hold. She exhaled, then, not realizing she'd been holding her breath, and shivered as the gesture was repeated by the elven assassin. Zevran was crouched down right behind her, she realized dimly. Normally he would have waited for her to move out of the way, but this time... well, to be honest, she wasn't sure she'd have been able to move anyway. Perhaps he'd realized this, and had just decided to be practical.

The Warden didn't realize she'd wobbled in place until she was suddenly leaning back against the very _warm_ Antivan. Wherever there was a break between the plates of her armor, she could feel the heat _pouring_ off of him, not that his chosen distance had been more than the width of her thumb to begin with. To his credit, Zevran said nothing, only chuckled deeply and set his chin on her pauldron, holding otherwise still, his gloved hands remaining on the opened lock in front of them. He was quite solid despite his finesse-over-strength fighting style, and seemed content to serve as a back-rest, at least for a few moments. The Warden let her head roll back against his shoulder, weariness only seeming to grow worse with the brief warmth seeping in past the heavy armor.

She muttered a gruff apology, but didn't move yet. If he was content to hold her up, heavy massive plate and all, then she wasn't going to bitch at the moment's reprieve. Few would stand her touch, even incidental like this, and fewer while she was armored and blood-spattered. The Warden felt too tired to point out the wisdom in this, especially for someone who was not tainted with the darkspawn plague.

"This is a lot heavier than your last set, isn't it?" Zevran remarked idly, tapping on a plate on her arm, "And you two managed to make it fit, despite being dwarven make... how marvelous." It had taken her and Alistair a few hours at camp, replacing straps and adjusting the plates without leaving any actual gaps anywhere critical... but plate was good for that, at least. They could probably make the set fit Sten, if they _really_ had to, although that would certainly require a few spare parts to be found or improvised.

"_Too_ heavy, maybe," the Warden admitted, moving to try to sit up under her own power again, but without much success. She huffed out a breath of annoyance. "Give me a push. I can't lounge around on you all day."

"You cannot?" Zevran affected startlement, and then disappointment, "Ah, such a shame..."

"Yeah," she grunted, "I'm sure you're real torn up about it." Privately, she was still _sure_ he only flirted with her because... well, he flirted with everyone, didn't he? And if he meant it at all, it was probably out of some misplaced idea that he had to sleep with her if he wanted to remain under Grey Warden 'protection' from the Crows.

One human noble had thought to make use of her, thinking the fire in her eyes was a challenge he could _break_, the challenge apparently exciting enough to counter her ugly face, and that was the scope of the interest she'd been dealt over the years. At least, that she'd noticed. A well-broken nose that hadn't been set quite right and a certain surly disposition had been enough to ward off _most_ men, even Nelaros had been understandably nervous upon meeting her. Zevran would realize one of these days that he needn't try so hard to stay under her dubious protection; the Warden was a guardian by nature, since long before Duncan had strolled into the alienage, and when she decided to protect someone, they were protected.

_Except for Nola, and Shianni,_ the Warden thought with a lance of renewed guilt. Perhaps Zevran had reason to worry, after all, but _if_ she failed him -- or anyone in their little band of misfits -- it would _not_ be deliberate. She had never... abandoned someone, and did not intend to start now.

It took her exhaustion-addled mind a few more moments to realize that Zevran had not given her any sort of push, and in fact had looped his arms around her armored waist, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do. With the plate as it was, it was easier to not notice these things at first. "...Arainai?"

"You were brooding again, my dear Warden," the Antivan tsk'd at her, "such an expression simply does not... suit you." In response, the Warden lifted her head and turned it to look at him, and found that he was _quite_ close; lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He was a painfully-attractive example of their shared species, and he knew it, and probably knew that _she_ knew it, and so the Warden jerked away, out of Zevran's loose grasp and up onto her feet. She stalked away, somewhat wobbly from fatigue -- and _only_ fatigue, of course -- the contents of the chest forgotten.

His easy laugh followed her, but the rest of him blessedly did not.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	4. Motivation

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 03.29.2010:

_Cyrion: We don't want to seem like troublemakers, after all. Adaia made that mistake._  
_PC: The humans who killed her made a bigger one._  
_Cyrion: Our world is full of so many injustices._

This one is vague on precisely when it takes place, and delves a bit more into the Warden. You folks seem interested in her, anyway, and Zev _certainly_ has to find things out over time. :) The lack of being able to say much about much of anything _to_ your companions is part of what has me writing this stuff to begin with. You can ask lots of questions and extract info out of them hand over fist, but when they ask anything back you only have a few canned responses to pick from that just don't seem to _mean_ much.

Reviews are adored, as always!

- - - - -  
**paint the two of us on a canvas in chains **/ **and hang it on the wall **/ **so the story sustains**  
-- Imogen Heap - Embers Of Love

"Why are you still here?" the Warden asked Zevran one night, watching him work with the deathroot they'd bought and gathered lately to restock his poison supply. She always _watched_ intently when someone was working with herbs of one kind or another, as he'd long since noticed. It was something the Antivan occasionally used to his advantage, when he grew tired of her staring silently at the fire. His poison supplies had never before been so well-stocked!

"...Ah?" Zevran paused in his surprise, glancing up. It was best to halt movement when startled, when working with powerful paralytics. The results otherwise could be... embarrassing. Hilarious, yes, but still embarrassing. "Was I... supposed to go somewhere, then?"

"I'm not enforcing your oath," the other elf took a drink of her dark tea, which Zevran had found out was a mix of herbs that Morrigan had come up with, which helped with the pain of her throat. Ironically, if she would talk _more_, she probably wouldn't have as much difficulty with it... but that was just how life worked, wasn't it? "Surprised you haven't taken off," said the Warden, "you could be across some mountains, or halfway across an ocean by now."

"Across _some mountains?_" Zevran repeated, setting his vials and such aside and wiping his hands carefully clean on a wet rag, "And what mountains do you propose I should cross, then?"

The Warden's response was a shrug and, "You probably know the map better than I do," the warrior was being damn-right _chatty_ tonight. The tea must have been a good batch, or she was just _that_ curious. Zevran considered her for a moment, and then got to his feet and _stretched_, arching his back and raising his arms over his head for a moment before relaxing and walking over to her side of their shared log. He plopped down right beside her, the closest he'd ever moved to her during these night-time almost-conversations.

"I'll answer your questions... if you answer mine," he offered with a smile when she slanted him a suspicious glance. When she didn't immediately turn him down, Zevran continued, "I will tell you why I haven't left, if you tell me why you didn't kill me."

_There._ There it was, he'd finally asked it.

The Warden snorted in faint amusement into her tea mug as she took another drink, probably to steel her throat for another half-sentence. "...You don't start off slow, do you."

"If that is what you desire, I can begin _quite_ slow," Zevran felt his eyes half-lid, his innuendo plain, and watched with hidden amusement as her brow furrowed in momentary confusion. The poor elven woman had yet to tell him to stop, but he doubted that she'd really _thought_ to. She obviously had no idea how to handle his attentions; it was kind of cute, really, and more than a little amusing when he considered _who_ and _what_ she was. His life was in the hands of a probable-virgin. Oh, the irony!

"Why do you keep doing that?" the Warden grumbled, her gaze sliding back to the fire.

"Do you wish me to stop?" he purred, "Or... do you just not believe me?" Pushing his luck, Zevran lifted a hand and traced a single bare fingertip across the top edge of her pointed ear, so like his own, and neatly-exposed with the way she wore her hair so tightly-confined. It twitched, as though there would have been a proper flinch if only she allowed it, and she turned her head to stare at him with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Arainai," the Warden's ruined voice was low and warning. She called him by his surname whenever she was uncomfortable, he'd discovered. This, too, amused him to no end.

And so Zevran slid closer, until they were almost thigh-to-thigh. "_Hmm?_" And then with a disarming smile, before she could get _really_ agitated with him, he added, "...Very well, I will behave... for now. But you make it so very difficult to be good." While he would still feel more comfortable about his... _place_ here if he could only get the Warden into bed, his teasing was starting to become more like it was with the others. Not quite the same, with so much riding on this one woman's opinion, but nearly.

"...Why don't you learn herbalism?" Zevran asked before she could really respond to his comments, "Morrigan would teach you, I think. Or I could teach you to make basic poisons... you seem quite interested in both." _There,_ a safe topic!

Or so he'd _thought_, anyway. The Warden's expression darkened, and she looked down at her chipped clay mug, held as always in both gloved hands. Zevran waited, and when he was certain that he would get no response he opened his mouth to apologize, but then closed it as the other elf drew in a breath to speak.

"My hands aren't steady enough," she stated. _That_ wasn't in the least bit what he'd expected. Zevran was silent, mind whirling with possible explanations. Injury? Sickness? There were some remarkably clumsy herbalists out there, so he doubted it was simply that, and then there were the constantly-present gloves, and the way she wrapped both hands around her tea, and-- "...Yeah," the Warden added gruffly after he'd been silent for a moment, "well, shit happens." And she set her mostly-empty tea mug aside and stood to go.

Zevran reached up and took her wrist without even thinking the action through, making the Warden pause. "I... didn't mean any offense, I am sorry," he said, bowing his head a little, "what happened to them?" The Antivan's grip was loose; easily broken, but he retained it even after she'd sat back down beside him.

"I... beat up the wrong human as a kid," the Warden said, looking less than comfortable with the topic. There was undoubtedly _much_ more to the story than was being told. "My father begged the shem and his buddies out of killing me for it... somehow... but not before they went at my hands with a hammer. Teach me a lesson."

Most people would have been gasping in horror, or making similar sympathetic noises. Zevran only nodded silently. The punishments and training methods of the Crows had been designed to _not_ leave permanent, debilitating harm -- assuming the trainee _survived_ -- but there was a lot that you could do to a young elven boy without physically crippling him for life.

"May I?" he asked, and pulled lightly at her wrist, attempting to draw her hand over to him so that he could examine it, "I promise to be absolutely careful."

The Warden snorted at him, but let him move her hand as he wished. "I'm not made of glass."

"Oh, I know, I know," Zevran chuckled softly, and began carefully tugging the glove free, "my ears are still ringing from your shield! But a certain level of care should be taken anyway, my dear lady, as it seems only appropriate. My _life_ is in your hands, after all... I should hope to avoid hurting them."

The only response he garnered was an annoyed frown, the Warden's gaze fixed on the Antivan's work as the glove slipped free. Her skin here was much more pale from the wrist down; clearly, her hands really _were_ always covered, and not just as a recent decision. Zevran paused to examine his prize, almost fascinated, poking at her fingertips and turning it this way and that. Bones had been crushed and had healed badly, tendons were just a little too tight... the musculature was about normal, certainly suitable for keeping a good grip on a sword or axe, but he could see why finer, more delicate tasks could be a problem.

A very crude torture method, but since the goal had clearly been to serve as a permanent reminder of the incident, it had been a rather effective one. He had to give them credit for that much, at least.

Zevran shifted his position so that he was facing her, holding the Warden's upturned hand in both of his with her fingers angled back toward himself. Before she could do more than shoot him a wary glance, he pressed both of his thumbs into her palm like _so_, and rolled them slowly outward like _this_, up and out into the thick muscle at the base of the thumb and the edge of the hand. The Warden hissed in a surprised breath, but didn't yank her hand back, and so the assassin smiled to himself and continued, adjusting his grip.

He hadn't been lying about his massage skills.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	5. Introspection

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 03.31.2010:

More Warden-perspective, as requested! Now heading into territory that I'm sure we all figured it would head into. As easy for the Warden as it would be for me to keep these as buddy-fics, we all know how Zev gets about his savior with the least little encouragement. And by encouragement, I mean simply not telling him to knock it off. XD

(( For anyone interested, since she's been getting such a warm response from folks, I've tossed Alley's soundtrack onto arofic. There's also a link to a post on dragon_age with images of her actually _in_ Dragon Age. Think of her description and you'll understand why that's a bit awesome. There's a link to the arofic comm in my profile, since links within stories end badly. ))

I have more ideas for these stories/chapters, but am open to suggestions. Reviews, as always, are _adored._ :D

- - - - -**  
A good listener is not someone with nothing to say. A good listener is a good talker with a sore throat.**  
-- Katharine Whitehorn

Whispering...

...and crackling...

...and clicking...

...and _clawing..._

_...and **screaming and roaring and--**_

And hands, on her face! Urgent words in a language she couldn't understand were being whispered in her ear, a weight pressing down over her... the Warden struggled for a moment longer, panicking blindly, before realizing _who_ it was and going perfectly still, her heart pounding. _Zevran._ That voice was unmistakable, all but _caressing_ the syllables to that foreign language of his. She opened her eyes, now that she remembered that she _could_, and found herself staring into a honeyed-brown pair watching her very carefully from a mere hand-length away. It was semi-light outside, and thus semi-light inside the tent, and she could see that the worry-crease between the blond's eyebrows had deepened for a moment.

Someone else may have asked if he was there to kill her. _She_ may have asked it as well, under different circumstances, but that expression didn't belong to someone about to sink a knife into her throat.

"You were thrashing in here, and I doubted it was for a _good_ reason," said Zevran after a long moment of staring searchingly, as though to make sure she was still herself, worry plain on his face. She found it odd, but he rarely tried to hide his expression from the Warden, even when they talked by the fire late at night -- something which was happening more and more often as they traveled. Sometimes, the words that came out of his mouth were at complete odds with the rest of him, but she'd learned which cues to trust and which to brush aside. _Mostly,_ anyway.

He was very close, right now, his weight pressing down over the blanket, straddling her and propped up on his elbows, his hands on the sides of her face. It was a remarkably intimate way to wake someone up, even if she _had_ been thrashing.

...And now he was a little closer, and the Warden felt her eyes widen. "Zevran," she warned, all too aware that her voice sounded like she'd swallowed sand, "whatever you're thinking of doing, it's not necessary."

"Not... necessary?" Zevran didn't back away, but he didn't draw closer either, "How do you mean?"

It had always been fairly obvious, what his motivations had to be. When Zevran had begged for his life, bruised and bleeding in the dirt at her feet, he had offered all sorts of... _services_ should he be kept alive. His desperation had been plain for the city elf to see, and had taken a long time to start to finally fade... but it had never gone away completely. She _still_ had the impression of a dog waiting to be beaten and cast out into the rain to die, and it was a part of why the Warden had finally begun to speak to him at night by the campfire. He did most of the talking, yes, but that was how she preferred it anyway, making an observation here or asking a question there to goad him on further.

She lacked social grace, and spoke very little, and many would have decided that made her a bit slow in the head... but she observed and listened and _thought_, a lot. The Warden could even be -- somewhat -- polite, if she chose to be, although she rarely chose now that she wasn't stuck living in the alienage. Becoming a Grey Warden had taken a lot of things from her, from her ability to dream as normal people did to the years she might live, but it had given a few things as well -- not the least the freedom to be just as ornery and surly as she liked. If a human had a problem with her mannerisms, these days, she had far more options than _ever_ before, and she took great pleasure in leaving thoroughly-intimidated shem in the party's wake.

Alistair didn't like it, but Alistair had never had to escort a rape-victim through the blood-splattered hallways of a human noble's estate, either. He'd never been beaten to within an inch of his life and then tortured for being what he was, had never been knocked out and carried through Denerim's back streets, had never--

But right now wasn't about Alistair, Adaia, _or_ Shianni. Right now was about the _Antivan_ elf poised so closely with his head tilted like _so_, so near that she could feel his breath ghost over her face. "...You are under my protection, Zevran, as dubious as it may turn out to be, for as long as you wish to be," said the Warden, her ruined voice clawing its way over the words. "I will not throw you aside, and the Crows will not easily claim you from my watch."

She watched carefully as Zevran's expression twisted and shifted minutely this way and that from her words, unsure what was going through his head. Anger? Shock? Relief? There was no telling without words and tone to go off of; she was no master of reading his face, even now. "Stay, until you do not wish to any longer," the Warden continued, "and then go freely, but do not think that you have to... _buy_ your way in. I am no shem lordling, to require a beaten elf's... service."

"...You... are a very _strange_ woman," Zevran breathed, finally, and the Warden stared in open surprise as he leaned down for a kiss _anyway_, his warm hands holding her head firmly in place. The hot slide of the tip of his tongue against her lips was enough to make her mind completely grind to a halt in shock. Why was he-- but she was--

But before she could react, for better or worse, he was off of her and gone, the tent-flap seeming to whisper threats and promises in Antivan as it fell closed again.

The Warden stared up at the ceiling of the tent for a long moment after he had gone, and silently wondered what _that_ was supposed to mean.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	6. Observation

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.02.2010:

This is a cute idea that I've been toying with for a few days, because of _course_ if Alley likes a boy she pulls his hair a lot. Right? Right. And Zevran seems the kind to not mind the pulling... at _all._ I can imagine that the first time this happened would be worth writing about as well, so I'll probably write it as well, later on. Obviously pre-dating this one! Apologies for how short this is, but trying to extend it out wouldn't work, and a lot of these things are just going to be stupid ideas/images I had anyway. :D

Oh, and I tried my hand at Alistair, and Leliana. I never talk to Leliana in-game, so hopefully I didn't butcher her too badly? ...And yes, I plan to do something with the feast-day items, eventually. Oh yes. Whether it will be humor or steamy, I haven't decided yet, or if it will even be in this little series... thing. The idea of Alley in anything steamy kind of frightens me a little! At least we know that someone would be bleeding, I guess... that's always a promising start.

Enough rambling from me! Remember, reviews make me a happy Aro!

- - - - -  
**We're kissing without kissing,** / **We've got it down to a fine art**  
-- Imogen Heap - Loose Ends

"Well _I_ think it's _romantic,_" Leliana proclaimed, taking a seat next to the blond man and following his troubled gaze with her rather more amused one.

"What, really?" Alistair glanced aside at the bard. They'd set up camp in a clearing very like the others they often used, and he sat on the obligatory tree log beside what would be the fire shortly enough, hunched a bit forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped as though they were cold. "Them beating the tar out of one another is _romantic?_ Since when?"

The sharp bark of Zevran's laughter hit the air like cannon-shot from the direction Alistair had been staring, the Antivan sounding just a little... _unhinged,_ just as he normally did in a fight, serious or otherwise. The sound was interrupted by an "--oof!" from a gloved fist meeting his stomach, and Alistair couldn't help but look back over again, over his shoulder, his brow furrowing. "Honestly, is that even _healthy?_" he asked the redhead, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his confusion, "Don't you think we all do enough fighting without them _adding_ to it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Leliana's thick accent made the words sound heavily-considered, "...I suppose it must have its uses, Alistair. At least it isn't a fight to the death?"

The human Warden frowned faintly, but he couldn't think of a suitable argument against _that,_ and so he sighed and nodded. "I suppose you're right. It just seems strange, that's all. And I still don't see how that's romantic, bleeding all over each other like that. Do women go for _that_ sort of thing, too?"

"Some do," the bard laughed softly, and set a hand on Alistair's forearm. "Why not? It is a dangerous world."

Alistair cleared his throat nervously, and did _not_ glance over at Leliana. Nope, no glancing, not at all! Well... maybe just a peek, forgetting that he had to turn his head a bit to do it. It was easy to find distraction, however, as a quick kick from Zevran sent the elven Warden crashing to the ground and then scrambling back up again, re-capturing the almost-Templar's attention. "You suppose they _teach_ that sort of thing, somewhere?" he mused, as the two -- dressed down into simple clothing -- circled each other like a pair of duelists, "I doubt they both picked that up from simple tavern brawls. I guess I rather expect it of Zevran, all things considered... who knows what the Crows teach their assassins? But _she's_ from Denerim, not Antiva."

"Elves are normally... servants, are they not?" Leliana sounded hesitant, as though speaking of a topic that was awkward, "I... have a hard time envisioning our dear friend working for some noble house, cooking or cleaning or watching after little children... and I have never been to an alienage, but I imagine there are more... violent ways to make a living in Denerim?"

"Wait," Alistair tore his gaze away from the two fighters, "are you implying that you think she... I don't know, _mugged_ people, or something? Why would you think that?"

"Well..." Leliana chuckled lightly, "it certainly _would_ explain her way of dealing with people, would it not?"

"--True!" The human Warden gave a startled laugh, putting her theory together with all the intimidated people they'd left in their wake. Their fearless leader never seemed to pass up an opportunity to put fear _into_ someone else if they showed _any_ sign of caring that she was an elf. Unfortunately, a lot of people seemed to care, at least a little tiny bit. But most of them didn't even say anything really _offensive,_ and Alistair felt her way of dealing with it to be a bit... excessive.

"I guess it's as good of a theory as any, at least. But still, _romantic?_" Alistair raised an eyebrow at the bard, "Are you sure you're not just seeing things?"

The sudden scuffling coming from the two elves' direction pulled his attention away again, watching as the Warden plowed a shoulder into the assassin's side. Zevran merely staggered back a step and then spun away instead of going down, giving the woman's back a _shove_ that sent her sprawling into the dirt again from her momentum. The Antivan's grin was so wide it could be seen clearly even from this distance, and it didn't fade even a bit when a dirt-clod was thrown up at him from the ground. Apparently, Zevran had won this round, and Alistair watched as he offered a hand down to his defeated foe, helping to haul the other elf to her feet.

Alistair continued to watch the two, noting that gloved hands didn't _immediately_ part, and that the two lingered quite close just a _bit_ longer than necessary. Nothing else happened, even though Zevran leaned quite close, but Alistair could practically _hear_ Leliana's "I told you so!", without her even having to open her mouth.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	7. Connection

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.03.2010:

Why yes, I _do_ make use of the (intimidate) options a lot! You wouldn't think it by the way she acts, but Alley's going to end up with all four notches of Coercion to go with her insane strength rating. After all, there's "Let's talk about this like adults," coercion and then there's... "See these pliers? I'm going to start with the joints of your pinky and work my way up," coercion. :D Ahhh, she does have a way with people, doesn't she?

This story takes place _before_ the last one, just to remind folks. I write 'em (_mostly_) in the order they hit me instead of chronologically, here, and keep the time-line on most of them fairly vague as a result. Other than some obvious progressions, of course. I have a few itching ideas for late-plot, like the Arl of Denerim's Estate (when you go in to rescue Anora -- round _two!_ DING!) but I'm holding off on them for a bit yet.

Reviews are loved, as always~

- - - - -  
**I suppose it is much more comfortable to be mad and know it, than to be sane and have one's doubts.**  
-- G.B. Burgin

"So... what now?" Zevran asked once his companion had stopped hauling him through the trees near the camp-site, and had released her grip on his elbow. All he'd done was suggest he help her work out some of her... _aggression,_ with a well-practiced leer that she was, by now, _quite_ well-practiced at ignoring. He highly doubted that she was hauling him out here for anything that his lopsided smirk and heavily-hooded eyes had been suggesting.

The Warden kept walking for a few more steps, and then unhooked her shield from her back, leaning it up against a tree. She then unbuckled the wide belt that ran over her right shoulder and set it -- weapon and all -- beside the shield. "Now, you're going to fight me," she said, just like that. So simple.

"What? Here? _Unarmed?_" Zevran had to admit, it wasn't what he'd expected to hear, and he spread his hands, "How crazy do you think I _am?_ Ah-ha--" he was quick to add, "--don't answer that..."

He stared as she pulled her gauntlets off and started undoing the buckles to her armor with fumbling, damaged fingers. The Warden still wore her leather gloves these days, even beneath her armored gauntlets, padding the too-sharp bones and permanently-damaged nerves. Perhaps he should introduce her to good Antivan leather someday, Zevran mused distractedly, the leather of his homeland was _far_ more supple and soft than what these Fereldans _called_ leather. It would probably do her hands a great deal of good.

"Elves aren't _allowed_ to carry weapons where _I'm_ from, and I'm sure the Crows trained you to be just as dangerous without your knives as you are with them," the Warden grunted, setting heavy plate armor and quilted padding aside. She wore a rumpled brown tunic and dark grey trousers beneath it all, and this was the first time Zevran had _ever_ seen her without at least the heavy chainmail he'd met her in. It was easy to forget that she was both shorter and slighter than him, a _girl elf_ even if it was sometimes difficult to remember that she had a gender of any kind at all. And that was saying something, although it had never stopped his flirting!

Zevran leaned back a little in place, and eyed her quite blatantly. There were _curves_ under there! Although, not very big ones, even by elven standards. Still, a bosom was a bosom, and who was _he_ to complain if each breast appeared to be little more than a handful? At least she had them, and it made Zevran _dangerously_ curious to see how tightly-bound they were under that shirt. And she had _hips,_ wonders never cease! He felt like he was like exploring some lost, forgotten ruin, seeing her like this. Plain clothing had never seemed quite so... _taboo_, before.

"Arainai, stop gawking and get ready to start fighting," the Warden grunted, rolling her shoulders experimentally without the weight of heavy plate armor, the process crunching and cracking audibly, "or get out of my way so I can find someone who will." Zevran tore his gaze back upwards. She looked so much _smaller_ without armor, and the way her ears stuck out from her head was almost comical without bulky pauldrons to either side. The Warden was not a pretty girl, by any means, and her ugliness had not faded with time and familiarity... but to an elf who enjoyed strong men almost as much as pretty women, she certainly still had her charms. He had certainly lain with worse-looking individuals -- generally _men,_ granted -- but he had still enjoyed himself.

"The last time we fought, my dear Warden, I seem to recall you beating me quite solidly into the dirt. Now... I enjoy a good _firm,_" why yes, Zevran was definitely leering again, "_creative beating_ as much as the next man, but... should I really wish for a repeat performance?" Despite his innuendo, he felt it was still a fair question!

"I've seen you bounce around the battlefield," she replied gruffly. "And this is unarmed. You'll be fine."

"If I 'bounce around the battlefield', dear lady, it is only to avoid the edge of your shield!" Zevran pointed out, watching as the other elf carefully popped damaged knuckles. She was actually going to try to _hit_ him with those mangled hands? "You could snap me in half with that thing! It is far more frightening than any blade, when you can knock a charging Ogre over with it... as you so often do."

The flash of teeth was not quite a smile, it was too fast and too... sharp. But it was definitely amusement, and Zevran realized suddenly that he'd never before seen the Warden actually _smile_, or even _grin_ -- and if that tiny flash qualified, it was the very first time. "Well," she said easily, "at least you've gotten faster, now haven't you?"

"Ah-ha! So it is a _life lesson_ you have been teaching me," the Antivan chuckled, "'When between a shield and a hard place, move very fast.' Yes, yes, I can see that now. Thank you."

"Don't mention it, the first one's always free," even the Warden's ruined voice was capable of a proper _drawl,_ it seemed, and he'd discovered that dry humor came as easily to her as innuendo came to him, which was saying something indeed. Another moment went by, and then she dropped back into a simple fighting stance; knees bent, balance even... Zevran felt his eyebrows go up, but he shrugged and tossed his weapons down beside hers. His Warden wasn't just another back-street brawler, it would seem, but if she was truly serious about doing this...

"What do I get if I win, may I ask?" he grinned, and it only widened as the crease between her eyebrows deepened as he slipped the top of his armor off. It wasn't as much of an advantage as plate, but he didn't feel like knowing that the Warden's mangled hands were punching into hardened leather armor anyway. Zevran had no doubt that she'd score quite a few hits; he was _rusty,_ there just hadn't been a _need_ to fight unarmed in years and years, not since he'd become so established as a Crow. He was never caught without a weapon, no matter how compromising the situation!

Besides, she seemed uncertain when faced with a bare-from-the-waist-up Zevran. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, he could get her from uncertain to _flustered._ Oh, how he loved _flustered!_

"Arainai," she huffed, as though speaking to a child, "_just_ in case you hadn't noticed, I'm _ugly._"

"But strong! And _tough,_ and _dangerous!_" Zevran countered, voice dropping to a purr as he mimicked her posture, "An elven woman who can throw _me_ over _her_ shoulder! Be still my beating... heart!" That last was managed only as he ducked a swing taken at his grinning face, her gloved fist skimming the top of his head. They backed away from one another. "You really have no idea how to handle flirtation, do you? Tsk, but what shall it be? Another kiss, perhaps?"

"Just shut up and fight," the Warden just sounded... tired. Even so, she lunged at him with plenty of force, and Zevran took a glancing hit to the corner of his mouth and tasted blood. She hit _hard!_

And so it began.

At one point in the fight, Zevran managed to get the Warden pinned flat to the ground, and he smiled crookedly down at her and wondered aloud how much tongue he might slip her this time. "Want to know how I broke my nose?" the Warden growled in response, and Zevran blinked at the sudden question before narrowly avoiding being headbutted in the face, taking a sharp _crack_ from her forehead to his chin that actually made his teeth clack together and his vision spark white.

She shoved him off in his disorientation, and so the fight resumed. His Warden did _not_ fight fair.

But of course, neither did Zevran.

Bruised and bleeding in a few places each, they brawled for far longer than their skirmishes with the darkspawn. He discovered that her stamina was far better without her own weight in armor pressing her down, and remarked upon it. "My goodness," Zevran panted out, once _she_ had _him_ thrown to the ground in turn, her knee on his chest. "I can only imagine how long this would last if it was not a _fight_ you desired!"

"Is that all you think of?" the Warden was just as short of breath, and the sound admittedly made the chill night air on his bare skin feel just a bit warmer.

"...Only when the situation calls for it, my dear," he somehow managed to keep his voice sounding silky and lavicious even in his current position, and mentally patted himself on the back for that one. A sudden twist made the Warden's knee slide over sweat-dampened skin and off to the side, and Zevran grinned hugely and levered himself up onto his elbows. Ah-ha, _now_ she was flustered, straddling his half-naked torso in the dirt. "I propose a draw," he added, and lunged up to press a fast kiss to her lips.

The punch made him taste blood all over again, but Zevran didn't care. He collapsed back into the dirt and laughed up at the moon as the Warden collected her equipment and left. No matter the outcome of this fight-that-wasn't, Zevran couldn't help but feel that he'd won. _Oh,_ yes. Everything in life was just a matter of perspective, after all!

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	8. Full Circle

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.05.2010:

A few shorter bits all bundled into one "chapter", all involving the circle tower. I considered giving Alley and Zevran different nightmares than the canon ones, and then started writing the Duncan one and Alley's well-oiled psyche took off running with it. That happens sometimes, when a character is a good fifteen or so years old! So, long story short, I stuck to the canon ones.

Maybe I'll figure out a way to write out some alternative ones anyway later on, haha. The need for character-torture is never sated!

Anyway! I hope you folks enjoy, and let me know what you think either way. ^^

- - - - -  
**Sometimes it's worse to win a fight than to lose.**  
-- Billie Holiday

The desire demon and the templar. Neither attacked immediately, the demon speaking calmly to the enchanted human before turning to their group. The Warden stepped forward, but also did not attack.

They spoke, each surprisingly civil to the other.

No one seemed quite sure what to make of it when the Warden told the demon to leave in peace and sheathed her sword. Leliana wasn't sure if it was wrong or right, and said as much as the two vanished, the Warden continuing on into the room as though this was normal. Wynne restrained herself to a stern _look,_ probably because the demon's "partner" was a templar, and not a mage. Her prejudices were easy to spot if you knew how to look, it seemed.

But no one asked the Warden _why_ she did it, and she didn't volunteer an answer.

Zevran watched it all, one eyebrow slightly raised, and wondered if this meant that the Warden was a _romantic,_ much as she might hide it. Why else would she let those two leave? They would hardly have been a struggle, after thoroughly trouncing an entire _room_ full of templars under another demon's sway only fifteen minutes prior.

It was something to contemplate, at least. He told himself that the more he knew about those around him, the better.

* * *

Duncan. She had _killed_ Duncan. He had raised his hand first, yes, but she had been quick to slaughter him, as well as the two men who had stood with him. It had been over so quickly... but it usually was, wasn't it? There were few things left to her that she excelled at more than fast, brutal combat; fewer things still that she was suited _for_, anymore, with her shattered body.

She felt that she would leave a trail of such failures behind her until the bitter end, staring down at the corpse of the elder Warden, the sound of his blood dripping off her sword onto the floor too loud to be real.

The encounter with the abomination in the tower. She felt her lips compress into a tight line as she realized the game being played. With a narrowing of her eyes and a clenching of her teeth, the elf raised her bloodied sword in both fists, point-down, and stared at the Duncan-that-wasn't for a moment before she drove her blade straight down into the demon's skull. The instant of resistance followed by the _crack_ and the sudden wet slide felt real enough, like punching through an eggshell with the eye of a needle.

But it wasn't real, even if the meaning behind it _was._ The death itself didn't _have_ to be real. The point had been made, heard loud and clear. Willingly, she simply added her own punctuation to it, signing her name on the dotted line. _Yes, I am a monster. Signed, me._ "Your games mean nothing to me," she said aloud to the demon in control of the dream, as she wiped the gore free of her blade and re-sheathed it over her shoulder, "I already know what I am."

Feeling her heart grow colder, she approached the glowing pedestal beyond the carnage. There was no way left for her but forward, and she would see an end to this. One way, or another.

* * *

The two torturers lay on the ground where they belonged, broken and cold. Frowning at the way Zevran all but cringed from the fight, stretched out and vulnerable on the rack, she brought her blade down on the ropes and freed him.

Helping him off the torture device and back onto his feet, she had only one thing to say to him.

"Those things never happened to you, huh?" Torture, being locked in oubliettes for weeks at a time, slavery, festering injuries... he'd mentioned these things by name before, as a part of the training of Crows, and then had laughed it off as things that had never happened to _him_, of course. The Warden had always suspected he had been less than honest in that last statement, as he usually was when he switched to lighter tones so suddenly, but now it was confirmed.

"Of course they didn't," Zevran's tone wasn't quite as light as back then, but it _tried,_ even if the haunted look in his eyes hadn't faded. The Warden said nothing about it, only raised the backs of her gauntlet-encased fingers to the dark tattoos on his face, brushing a stray lock of hair back. It was an intensely _odd_ gesture for her to make, but one she didn't think to question just yet.

The Antivan's eyes widened slightly, and the haunted look was finally banished. "Wait -- where are you going?" he asked, though she hadn't done more than drop her hand. He shimmered and then faded from her sight, just as the others had done in _their_ dreams, although she hadn't made any such gestures with them.

If this was something that she would never wake up from, at least she'd gotten to say goodbye. Of a sorts. If they both made it out of this intact, _then_ she could be embarrassed.

The Warden turned back to the pedestal. It was time to see if Niall was right about the inner sanctum of this place. If not, she would certainly go out of her way to be a pest to the end, at the very least.

She just wasn't very accommodating, sometimes.

* * *

"So why _did_ you spare the desire demon and the templar?" Zevran finally asked late that night, when neither of them seemed willing to go to their tents and re-visit the fade all over again. Knowing _that_ was where they went when they dreamed... neither said it, of course, but the two elves just happened to be sitting at the campfire even later than usual that night. Coincidence, surely.

"Why not?" the Warden asked, gloved hands wrapped around her chipped clay mug as usual. "I let the blood mage go as well, you know. I was not there to enforce the Chantry's laws, I was there to build an army."

"How very pragmatic of you," he sounded... neutral. Closed-off. _Tense._

"Disappointed?" she turned her head to look at him, and found that the Antivan was, for once, the one staring into the fire. They were both exhausted, and it showed. "I highly doubt it's on behalf of the Chantry. Are you wondering if that's why I spared _you?_"

The speed with which he looked up and over at her spoke volumes.

"I spared you because I _could,_" stated the Warden, sounding tired even to her own ears. Duncan laying in a growing pool of blood was still very fresh in her mind, and she turned her gaze back to the tea in her hands. "It's not a choice I'm often given, but it's one I often wish I had. I didn't know you as an individual yet to have a more personal reason, if that's what you're looking for, but it was my choice, and I made it, and I have never regretted it."

"_...Never?_" Zevran chuckled deeply, immediately moving to lighten the conversation. "Not even when I threaten to kiss you?"

"Maybe just a little, then," she snorted, and absently swatted at him as he leaned close. The other elf had taken to sitting right beside her, lately, and she hadn't really thought to question it... especially after the ordeal of the fade. There was a chill in the air that the campfire could do nothing about, tonight.

Undeterred, the Antivan pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. "_My hero,_" he breathed, and she scowled aside at him as he leaned back again.

"Don't even _joke_ about that," the Warden muttered, "or you'll definitely end up dead."

"Hmm, even if it is true?" Zevran sighed, "Very well, as you wish. For now."

The Warden simply went back to staring moodily at her tea, and ignored the other elf's contemplative look.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.10.2010:

Zevran's equipped belt when you first get him is "Mixed Metal Rounds", and its description if you inspect it is as follows: _A memento of an early conquest, mercenary or romantic. Incriminating items melted down into nondescript tokens. The contributing parts were likely worth more than the result, but that's not the point._

I reference it in this bit, so I figured I'd post that up. :3 Also, the injury taken in this would normally take like a long, long time to heal in the real world, if it _ever_ did. I realize in pure game-logic it could have been healed in one day, but I settled for a few weeks. Alley's various older injuries are the way they are because there weren't exactly any mages with healing magic standing around idly waiting to fix up random city-elves when they happened.

This chapter has a lot of ow in it. Reasonably graphic ow. I tend to do that. Also, this one took longer due to RL, and I think I'm a little bit in _hate_ with it after dithering so long over various bits, but I decided to just post it anyway. I hope you guys like it better than I do!

Much love for the reviewers!

- - - - -  
**I have woven a parachute out of everything broken.**  
-- William Stafford

She was tough and hard, tall and strong, made of spiderwebs and _steel_ instead of flesh and bone, and when she _bled..._ it was made of sand and thorns, hot acid and adrenalin and _spite._ And she never, ever stopped moving, never stopped _hitting,_ even when she herself was hit hard enough to dent her armor. _Nothing_ could make the Warden stop beating the enemy into twitching piles of broken flesh on the ground, and pity anyone or anything that tried.

That was how it _seemed,_ anyway, whenever they were in combat. The darkspawn didn't stand a chance.

And then one day, everything about that image he had -- _they all had_ -- built up about their leader changed, drastically. It took only a moment for tall and strong to shrink back down to small and... yes, still _strong,_ but... _fragile._ Just like the rest of them. Flesh and blood, so easily broken beyond repair. And wasn't she already an example of that, with her hands and her face and her voice and who knew what else? But it was so easy to forget, in the middle of a fight, that she was _real_ and not the iconic immortal hero the Blight was painting her as.

The moment of sudden change struck when an ogre lifted the already bleeding and bruised Warden in both giant hands, and _squeezed._ Even the noise of plate bending and crunching couldn't completely mask the _sound_ that was torn out of the Warden's ruined throat at that moment, the air being shoved right out of her along with a great deal of blood. It made Zevran's own blood run cold with dread even as he leaped through the air, digging his twin knives into the beast's face so that it had to drop the suddenly-small elven woman in order to take a swing at him. She hit the ground with a wet thump and a clatter, sword and shield falling forgotten to the side.

Zevran kept the giant darkspawn occupied while Sten -- the only one in their party strong enough, it needed no discussion -- gently lifted the Warden from the ground, crushed armor and all, and moved her out of the way of the battle. Her blood coated his armor, and the dirt, and by the time the fighting was done Zevran was _sure_ that she would already be dead.

But Morrigan was already at work by the time he finished the ogre off, and the Warden yet lived. The apostate had been the party's healer _long_ before Wynne had joined them, and the Warden had insisted that she improve her healing magics before her destructive ones, citing that they had plenty of ways to _inflict_ harm and few ways to _fix_ it. That forethought was probably all that was keeping the Warden alive now, even as Sten was directed to bend _back_ the pieces of the crushed plate.

Zevran drew near enough to hear the raw, _wrong_ noises coming out of the Warden. Pain. Absolute, mind-numbing, tear-choked _pain._ And it was horrifying to hear, coming from a woman whose stony silence in battle had helped make her seem so unreal in those moments. As he drew closer, he saw the red and white gleam of bone protruding through clothing and skin in more than one place, and the horrible sucking noise that was the Warden's breathing only grew worse. Her rib-cage was in _bad_ shape.

Without having to be told, Zevran came to a decision, and he turned and bolted in the direction of the camp-site they'd left behind this morning. He estimated it to be a twenty minute hard run... but the Antivan Crow would do it in _five,_ so help him. Running _away_ from the sounds of pain and bending metal felt like the betrayal that he knew, intellectually, that it was not... but if anything it only helped him run harder. The faster he got there and told Wynne, the faster he could get _back_ to his Warden's side.

Morrigan was a decent enough healer, these days, but she was _definitely_ going to need assistance if the Warden was going to pull through. And Zevran hoped with an intensity he wasn't used to feeling that she _would_ pull through.

* * *

Pain, sucking breath, a blur of light, _pain_, something digging sharply into her side, _**pain**_. Large hands, holding her down when she tried to thrash, words she couldn't understand, pain. The slick slide of bone, the sickening dangling feel of flesh no longer firmly attached. Finally, a ragged gurgling scream that she couldn't pinpoint the source of, and then darkness as she was overwhelmed completely. Blessed... peaceful... darkness.

The Warden was aware of nothing else for an indeterminate period of time.

Finally, eventually, she felt herself slide back towards the surface, and took a shallow, hesitant breath of awareness. Awareness, she remembered belatedly, _hurt._ "...Ow," the elven woman heard herself croak. Her eyes were gritty and dry and felt like they had been half-open for hours, and she managed to blink once, hard, despite how gross it felt to do so, focusing slowly on the ceiling of an unfamiliar room.

"Indeed," said a familiar voice, the accent thick and familiar... Zevran. Her gaze slid to the side, followed by her head, finding the Antivan sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her, his belt removed from his armor and laid out across his knees. A small shard of metal was held in his fingers, obviously being inspected before she'd interrupted. It looked like it might be a bit of her ruined armor, her own dried blood still visible on its surface. Was he adding it to his belt's already-impressive little collection of metallic odds and ends? "Very eloquently put, my mangled Grey Warden," he chuckled deeply, "Would you like help sitting up?"

"..." This took careful consideration. _Everything_ hurt. "_...Ow._" A slight cough had her seeing flashes of white and red, and her gaze went completely unfocussed as her recently-crushed ribcage chimed in with its own commentary. She cursed very, very softly, and tried to breathe as little and as shallowly as possible. The Warden forgot entirely about Zevran's presence, let alone his question, until this passed some time later and she became aware that she was being stared at quite intently.

"--Yes, undoubtedly so," Zevran agreed, and leaned back again, "Wynne claims you will be able to walk around in another day or two, and fight again in a week. If you are _careful._ You were quite lucky... not coughing up blood anymore is a very good sign."

The Warden didn't _feel_ particularly lucky. She let her eyes slide shut for a moment, then brought a hand up to wipe the gunk from them. Her arm felt like lead, and her leather gloves were gone; the touch of skin on skin felt unbelievably _weird._ "Where...?" If she normally sounded bad, her voice was _worse_ now. It was a good thing Zevran could probably translate her one-word comments, by now.

"Denerim," the Antivan answered easily, "it's been... ah, two days. Bodhan and his wagon helped us move you after you stayed unconscious for the first day, so we won't have to worry about darkspawn attacking." Of course, that Zevran was worried about _other_ attackers went without saying. The Warden was willing to bet that was precisely _why_ he was here, sitting on the bed with her, even though she couldn't _currently_ see his ever-scanning eyes, or the tenseness in his shoulders. Cities were familiar to him, as he'd once said, but they were also familiar to every _other_ Crow out there, as well. It had to be on his mind; the next attack would likely _not_ take place out on the open road.

"Where...?" she asked again, and flexed her fingers stiffly as she set her hand back down on the blanket. The Warden was dressed; she could feel the fabric of plain clothing under the light blanket thrown over her, and all of it over the tight bandages wrapped all around her ribs. But no gloves. She managed to get her eyes open, gunk-free now, but still as dry as sandpaper.

"Ah, everything you had on was blood-soaked," Zevran answered apologetically, "I cleaned your gloves and stowed them away for you, once there was nothing else I could do, but you will not want to wear them right now."

She thought about that, albeit through the fog of pain and exhaustion -- how could she still be exhausted? Ah, right, extreme blood loss -- and imagined putting stiff, hard leather on her hands. It wasn't a pleasant thing to contemplate; the gloves were meant to shield raw nerves _from_ rough and hard things. And if she was stuck here for now, there was no need to push it. "...Thanks," the Warden managed to rasp out.

Her eyes scanned the room, half-unfocussed. Why _had_ they taken her here, if they were in Denerim? Denerim itself wasn't a surprise, they'd been camped only a few hours away. But didn't they know she was from the alienage here? She was _sure_ she'd mentioned it to Alistair, at least. The other elves would have let them in with a minimum of harassment once they'd seen who they had brought with them, and Cyrion would have put an end to even that much. This was probably some sort of inn, which meant they were paying to stay under a roof.

She could sense Alistair, the only other tainted being within range, perhaps a few rooms down the hall of wherever they were. The others were probably near-by as well. Her dog gave a happy bark from near the closed door upon seeing she was awake and aware, and then resumed chewing on the bone someone had given him. She supposed he wasn't as worried about her health as he may have been, being able to understand a great deal more than another breed of dog would have.

"...Alienage?" the Warden asked, gaze focusing on the only other elf in sight. It was so strange, that he was so foreign -- he didn't _look_ at all Fereldan, with that skin-tone, and he _sounded_ even more alien than Sten did -- and yet, he was the only other of her species in their group. Zevran was often the only other elf she saw for days or weeks at a time, and it was starting to make him more 'normal' than the occasional Fereldan elf they met on the road, with their pale skin and dark hair... like her own, yes, but how often did she see herself?

"Ah... it is currently closed off and under close guard," Zevran replied, "there was an uprising, and the Arl's son -- _and_ his Estate's entire guard force -- was butchered in the process, according to the man at the gate, and..." he trailed off for a brief moment, peering at her, brows slightly drawn, and then continued hesitantly, "...the new Arl's first action was to lead a purge of the alienage."

Apparently her expression was much more open than usual, because his eyes widened even though she hadn't said a _word._ The Warden looked away from him and up at the ceiling. Another purge? _She_ had been the one to do all that butchering, leading directly to her conscription into the Grey Wardens... and after she had gone, they had gone on a purge in revenge? There had been many in the last decade; she herself had born witness to more than a few, but somehow she felt a _vengeful_ purging by such a high-ranked noble had probably dwarfed all the others. And she herself had been the cause.

"...I should not have told you this right now, I think," the Antivan interrupted her thoughts with a sigh, perhaps reading some of that grim realization. "Alistair mentioned that you were from here."

The best short response she could give was a noncommittal grunt, absent while her thoughts whirled darker and darker. Had they discovered that Soris had helped her? That Shianni had been involved? Had they found out who she was; that their killer was far out of their reach, and gone after her father instead? Was everyone _dead?_

"Still, it is good to know that the elves here are finally taking things into their own hands, yes?" Zevran commented carefully, after she'd been silent for a while, perhaps to try to break some of the tension in the air from her brooding; force a reaction out of her of some kind. Well, it worked.

"_They_ never take anything... into their own hands," she whispered hoarsely, and even after all of the single-word questions and answers from her since waking up, the sudden full sentences were utter _agony_ in her current condition. "They... only stand around... and wait for someone _else_ to do it _for_ them... wringing their hands and... pointing their fingers all the while." The Warden's voice was practically a squeak at the end, speaking hurt so bad. All she could do was clench her eyes shut and raise her hand to her throat as though it would help, somehow. Bare skin on skin was strange all over again, her fingers used to touching everything through a layer of leather, but it was hardly enough to distract her as she breathed as slowly and as shallowly as she could and silently waited for the pain to ease.

A warmer hand than hers brushed her fingers aside, fingertips settling at her throat and rubbing with absolute care to try to soothe what couldn't really be soothed. It was a natural thing, to reach for the part that hurt, even if it was futile... and under different circumstances, she may have found his choice to do it _for_ her amusing. As it was, the Warden opened her eyes and found Zevran staring thoughtfully down at her, his fingers on her throat, and it struck her as ironic, suddenly, that this man had tried to _kill_ her, once. That thoughtful look on his face really _should_ have alarmed her.

She wrapped her crooked fingers part-way around his arm, above his fingerless gloves and just below the armor strapped at his elbow, but didn't push his hand away as she'd originally intended. Instead, she found herself staring up at him in confusion through the thick fog of pain. It seemed a bit _less_ thick, now, than it had a few moments ago. "...We -- I -- began to think of you as immortal, untouchable, like the Grey Wardens told of in legend," Zevran said, after she let her hand fall away from his arm. "But no more. You are flesh and bone like any other, and I vow to never again forget it."

The Warden wasn't sure she liked the sound of _that,_ coming from the guy who already seemed to look out for her plenty in a fight. "Zevran," she croaked out in a ruined whisper, "don't do... anything stupid. I'm in... plate. You're not. I... have... a shield. You... don't."

"Ah, very true. But that does not mean I should let myself be fooled into thinking of you as _untouchable,_ my dear Warden," Zevran countered smoothly. "But... we can speak of this another time, yes?" Warm fingers lingered, brushing away the edges of the pain there, if not the untouchable bulk, "Right now, you should simply rest."

And despite her best efforts to keep arguing, her recent blood-loss and the almost hypnotic things his touch was doing to her ruined throat won out. The Warden let her eyes slip shut, and soon enough she dreamed of long hallways and her cousin's terrified face splattered in Vaughan's blood. And in her mind's eye, the alienage _burned._

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.12.2010:

...I hated the last chapter because I had to stare at it for too long, guys. XD But I'm glad you liked it anyway! It's rare that I'm pleased with a chapter when its fresh, but I haven't been _that_ sick of looking at one in a good long while.

Not much to say about this one, it's just some random floof that takes place within a few days of the last one. Those previously-acquainted with Alley will no doubt find the idea of her doing random floof just a little bit brain-breaking. But hey, all the _other_ versions raised Tannusen! She's not _all_ coffee dregs and gasoline! ...Just... you know, _mostly._

Reviews make the world go 'round!

- - - - -  
**Lust is easy. Love is hard. Like is most important.**  
-- Carl Reiner

The innkeeper's son, as it turned out, was _very_ interested in fighting, and the innkeeper himself was even willing to accept lessons for his boy on the subject as part of their fee for room and board. And the Warden, it turned out much to the _entire_ group's surprise, was an excellent instructor. Between that and Leliana's performances in the main room, they were nearly staying for free.

"No," Zevran heard the Warden's voice, back to its _usual_ level of bad instead of the terrible wreck it had been when she'd first woken up from her injuries, "you're clenching too early." The assassin peeked around the corner, into the small courtyard being used for the lesson, and watched as his Warden demonstrated a greatly-slowed punch into a dirt-filled sack.

"Clench right _before_ impact," she stated, as though she'd said this all before. "Keep your fist loose until then. Aim two inches past the surface... the energy should not stop _at_ impact. It should continue." And a demonstration at normal speed, the elven woman's gloved fist snapping into the bag.

"Ahh, is _that_ how I ended up so bruised when we last fought?" Zevran asked, turning the corner smoothly, "And here I thought I had simply grown too delicate." The Warden was too pale, and just the slightest bit unsteady on her feet, not even recovered enough to bear the weight of armor again. He'd been checking up on the lesson at regular intervals waiting for this, and now the Antivan smoothly strode into the courtyard and took her still-bent elbow in hand.

Her visible aggravation as he tucked her arm into his lacked any real heat, and so he chose to find it amusing. Zevran flashed them both a brilliant smile. "I am afraid our dear lady is still recovering from her injuries," he said apologetically to the human boy -- a teenager who was already a little taller than Zevran, "so I will have to steal her away for the time being."

"Of... of course," the boy blinked down at them, seeming to take in the Warden's pallor for the first time, "it was a good lesson, thank you. Another tomorrow?" Very polite of him, but if he'd been bothered by his teacher's race, Zevran highly doubted that their leader would have agreed to instruct him at all.

The Warden grunted an affirmative, and then allowed Zevran to lead her back into the building. "I look that bad, huh?" she asked once they were out of ear-shot, trying to pull her arm free and not succeeding.

"Indeed, although 'bad' is not the word I would have chosen," Zevran replied in a silky tone, letting her take her arm back only once she was seated on a stool at one end of the bar. He slid onto another beside hers. The place was empty at this hour, only those who were staying in rooms upstairs really had access and most of them were either out, or asleep. "...But tired? Yes. And I have been left to keep you company while the others take care of Sergeant Kylon's latest needs."

"You mean you were left behind to coddle me," the other elf grumbled sourly. "I'm about ready to start beating on all of you with a _stick_. I'm the same as before. Just, in repair."

"You are not a sword, my dear, to simply be put back to the forge and fixed," Zevran managed a very faint little laugh, though it held a nervous edge. He didn't like the way her expression didn't change at all at his words. The longer he knew her, the stronger he suspected that she was not _nearly_ so well-adjusted as he was; some of that madness he'd glimpsed in that brief, single flash of a sharp-edged grin seemed to run deeply _indeed._ He'd seen that kind of crazy before, but they -- fellow trainees, largely -- had rarely lived very long after.

It was rather intriguing, in a morbid sort of way. And a little worrisome, since _she_ was the one leading them around on this mad quest to save the world from another Blight... _and_ she was what stood between himself and a gruesome death at the capable hands of the Crows. Was he going to find her dangling from the rafters, some morning? Unlikely, but he felt in hindsight that she had been throwing herself at danger just a little _too_ eagerly, much as he had in ambushing her. But she was much more successful at it, and so they had all let her do it, until now, fooled into thinking her stubbornness was some form of unsurpassed strength.

With all of this in mind, Zevran nudged the Warden's arm on the bar-top with his elbow to get her attention. When she slanted him a curious glance, he smiled slyly and inched his stool a little closer to hers, leaning in conspiratorially. "...So," drawled the Antivan, "do you come here often?"

He ducked away from her agitated swat at his head, grinning."You hauled me in here to use _that_ line?" the Warden scoffed.

"Well... no," Zevran laughed, "but why let the opportunity go to waste, hm? You should cheer up," he added with another nudge at her arm, "all of this brooding you insist on doing... it will give you _wrinkles_. And if it does not, it will certainly give them to _me_ instead! You don't want that, do you?" The Antivan couldn't exactly tell her that she'd get gray hair; he'd long since noticed the beginning of dark steel streaks from her temples, blending in with the brown... but there they were anyway. They'd been there longer than he'd known her.

"Too late for that," the Warden grunted in eerie echo of his thoughts, making Zevran blink at her in momentary puzzlement. His confusion turned into amusement when she reached up and poked him squarely on the forehead with one gloved fingertip, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she did so. "You can tell me not to brood all you like," she added gruffly, lowering her hand back to the polished bar-top, "but you've got worry-lines all over your face," a snort, "hypocrite."

"You just poked me," Zevran said, laughter in his voice. "You _poked_ me."

"Yup," leave it to the Warden to make that one word sound gruff and weathered. He wondered how old she was... surely not as old as she acted? The gray in her hair only made her age all the more indeterminate, even for an elf. Frustratingly so. Some of the scars on her face seemed quite aged, but it was so hard to tell... and he knew little enough of her background. A fresh recruit into the Grey Wardens, yes, but how old did they accept with a Blight on their doorstep?

Zevran leaned close again, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, "...Does that mean you _like_ me?" he breathed, looking up at her from under heavy eyelids as she glanced aside at him, her brow furrowed.

"Don't push your luck," she replied flatly, and he actually hesitated, surprised at how cold those words felt. Unexpectedly callous, even from his Warden. But then she continued, looking away, "...but you don't see me poking anyone else, do you?"

He stared at the side of her face for a moment; at that hawkish, battered profile with all its ageless faults, dark blue eyes staring fixedly at the bar-top as though it was fascinating, and he felt a grin slowly pull at his lips. "...You _like_ me! Does that..." Zevran leaned even nearer, shoulders brushing, "...does that mean I can _poke_ you _back?_"

His innuendo couldn't be helped any more than her aggravated glance. "If you want to _poke_ someone," grumbled his Grey Warden, "perhaps you should try my student. He seems likely to let you, and gladly enough."

"Oh-ho, you noticed that, did you?" Zevran chuckled, putting his elbow on the bar and his chin in his palm, remaining leaned-in quite close to her as she carefully went back to not looking his way. It was sort of adorable, how utterly he could push their stoic leader out of her comfort zone, and yet he'd never been told off for it. Those who resisted temptation often secretly wanted temptation to stick around anyway, _just in case,_ as he'd long since discovered.

"I'm a lot of things," said the elven woman, "but I'm not _blind._ Go on." And the Warden shot him an unreadable look, finally, eyes widening a little at how close he still was.

Ah, but this was dance that Zevran was a master of, and he knew that sometimes a pull was more effective than a push. "...As you wish, then," he sighed wistfully, "he's a handsome enough lad. Perhaps if I wear him out enough tonight, he will wear _you_ out less tomorrow, hm?" And the assassin leaned back, and then climbed off his bar stool. "Would you like an escort up the stairs, my dear?"

A dry rag left out on the bar-top flew at his head, and Zevran gave his Warden a cheerful grin before he left the room with a wave. That he didn't actually go very far, and instead lurked just around the corner for a while longer... well, she didn't have to know that, now did she?

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.15.2010:

Relevant info: City Elf warriors starts off with "Dual-Weapon Sweep" learned by default. Even if they specialize in another branch, the CE warrior has a previously-learned proficiency in dual-wielding. In Character, I take this to mean that it was Adaia's fighting style, passed down along with the basics that make the CE a "warrior" (or rogue, she always matches the CE's class) as she is stated to have been the one who trained the CE with their starting-skills. Adaia was the City Elf's mother, killed by human guards when the CE was younger.

This one takes place a day after the last one. I'd better be careful, or I'll have an actual time-line going here, hahaha... I'll probably go back to vague-timeline stuff next, with her either healed up or mostly healed up, I dunno. Alley's sort of a hilariously-bad patient, but I don't want to bore folks too much with it. I'm sure Zev will get beat up at some point, too, I really seem to love kicking the crap out of characters. XD But let me know what you guys think, do you want another direct continuation, or shall I move on? :3

Also, thanks go out to UpiH on the Bioware forums for catching Ferelden/Fereldan for me. It's all been fixed retroactively.

As always, I heart heart heart the reviewers! You guys rock my socks!

- - - - -  
**Problems are the price you pay for progress.**  
-- Branch Rickey

The next day, the alienage was still under lock and key, and the Warden was still unable to wear the group's one spare set of plate armor. The Blight was still coming, Loghain was still alive -- as was that new Arl bastard who'd ordered the latest purging, what was his name again? -- and the Warden was getting _restless_. She didn't have the time or the leisure to simply sit around and recover, surely?

And so she put the innkeeper's boy through his paces in the morning, with extra viciousness after the fourth time he smiled over at Zevran, who leaned casually against a wall with his arms lightly folded and a _smirk_ on his face. Those two could do what they liked on their own time, but she was supposed to be _teaching_ the kid, and he could damn well pay attention!

Said boy wore out much faster today than before, and she shot Zevran a dark look. He, of course, only grinned wider.

Hmph.

As soon as the lesson was over, the Warden went upstairs to change, and nearly ran into Zevran in the hall as she stepped back out of the room again. "Where are you going?" the Antivan asked, startled, as he moved easily out of the way. She gave him a flat look as she closed the door behind Jethro, the giant mabari bounding off down the hall towards the stairs with a short, sharp bark, his huge paws sliding comically over the hardwood flooring.

"...Out," the Warden said after watching her dog almost run-down another patron, her ruined voice grating over the words, "if I spend another day 'recovering' and staring at the walls, I'm going to hurt someone." It was a lot of words, from her, but she'd found herself speaking to Zevran more and more as time went on. It seemed to hurt her throat less, like it was getting used to the concept again, although it was hardly _comfortable,_ and her voice still sounded as bad as ever. It would _always_ hurt, and her voice would _never_ sound normal, but she'd long since accepted both facts and learned to move on.

Zevran actually listened quite intently to the things she said, however, and so it seemed more... worth the hassle than otherwise.

"Isn't that a rather dangerous idea?" the assassin himself asked, trailing after her on the way to the stairs, "The others have been running into trouble left and right, or so I hear. And you are... un-armored." But not _un-armed_, she wasn't surprised that he'd noticed. A long knife hidden in one boot, and another one under her tunic at the small of her back. Concealed, yes, but nothing so artfully done that a Crow wouldn't spot it from up close. The two knives weren't much in the way of weaponry to someone now used to carrying a longsword and a shield, but it was still far better than she'd had the _last_ time she'd walked in Denerim, her last day here aside. And without her armor, _or her health_, she didn't feel like drawing attention to herself as an elf with visible weaponry.

"I'm _from_ Denerim," she pointed out, starting down after her dog, "I know what places to avoid, and I know when to duck."

"Very true!" Zevran agreed cheerfully. He caught up to her side at the bottom of the stairs and looped his arm in with the Warden's before she could think to jerk away from the gesture. It was a strange habit he seemed to be getting into, although as a pair of elves it worked well enough, height-wise. A matched set of freaks, no less, amidst an entire group of outcasts and leftovers. "Then you can give me a tour of this fine city, yes? I have been left behind by the others as well, you see... _very_ tragic."

The Warden glanced down at their feet as she went for the door, amused despite herself to see that Zevran was matching her stride, too. They had to look _ridiculous_. "You're an odd one," she told him, just in case he didn't realize that.

"So I hear!" Zevran's cheer refused to wane in the least, it seemed. She often wondered where he got the energy for it. "So, where are we off to? The docks? The fish market?" he lowered his tone conspiratorially, "The _whorehouses?_ It's not a proper tour without them, you know."

"...You're the one who wanted a tour, you tell me," she snorted, peripherally aware that she'd just been walked right into agreeing to take him on a tour of Denerim. The sly bastard. And the grin he shot her as they navigated easily around empty tables and chairs spoke volumes about how well he knew it, too.

Zevran paused along with her as she opened the door out of the inn, the Antivan looking thoughtful. "_Well_ then, let's see, how about we start with--"

He was interrupted as the Warden was almost bowled over by Alistair, bursting in through the door just as she opened it. Only Jethro's collision with the human as he moved to bounce out ahead stopped the Warden from having a painful impact with the armored man. Alistair oofed, and stumbled back a step, and the mabari continued out into the street undaunted. "Sorry! I just -- look! The hidden pearl!" Unhooking her arm from Zevran's, the Warden took the rumpled poster from Alistair, and read the simple words printed on it: _Don't believe the lies! Friends of the Grey Wardens assemble. The hidden pearl holds the key to resistance. The griffons will rise again._

"Isn't that great?" Alistair breathed, "Someone still _believes_ in us! I mean, assuming it's real, and whoever it is hasn't been killed yet, and--"

"Yes, yes," the Warden grunted sourly, although even _she_ couldn't help the spark of hope at the words on the poster, and she held it out for Zevran to take and look over. Having been a Grey Warden for only a few hours before the world had gone upside-down -- _again_ -- and the entire order had been labeled as traitors to the crown, she couldn't _help_ but hope. Did _someone_ see through the lies? Did they have _allies_ in _Denerim_, of all places?

"You're just in luck," she added to Zevran, pushing Alistair aside and stepping out past the big man. "Because there's only _one_ Pearl in Denerim."

"I was _hoping_ you'd know what that was about!" the almost-Templar fell in step with the two elves, "The others are split up all over the place doing work for the guard, and I was hoping us three--" at Jethro's sharp bark from ahead, he amended, "--_four_, could go investigate this."

"It's something to do," the Warden agreed gruffly, as though she _wasn't_ burning with curiosity.

* * *

The fight was quick, dirty, and brutal. Alistair shouldered the Warden aside as soon as it was clear that they'd walked into a trap, stepping forward, and she fell sideways onto one of the large beds crammed into the narrow room. Though her vision sparked white as her ribs were jostled, the elf snarled and drew her knives, rolling up into a crouch on the furniture. She wasn't half as handy with them as with a shield, but she was... _proficient._

And a good thing, too. One of the Qunari mercenaries brought his sword down where she'd been on the bed, having knocked _Alistair_ aside. The Warden trapped the giant's blade with both of her own, the battle outside of the bed's narrow alcove raging on noisily behind him. Their would-be killers had plenty of muscle backing them, to be sure, and she wondered how many _actual_ allies they'd had before this group had set their little trap.

She couldn't compete with the Qunari's strength with her ribs in their current condition, however, and she knew it. Although when healthy she could have swung the Qunari's weapon around effortlessly; could have worn _his_ armor; she was not yet up to it again. So even as the giant yanked his sword upward to free it, she rolled _backwards_ on the bed, the pain from her ribs _screaming_ through her nerves. A wide and precise sweep of both of her weapons kept the distance clear between herself and the mercenary for the second it took her to get her bearings back, her back to the wall, half-crouched on the bed, knives glinting in the dim lighting.

The mercenary lunged, and it took all the strength she _did_ have to catch razored steel between her blades and hold it at bay; turn it aside from her throat; to shove _forward_ and drive one of _her_ knives into a gap in the armor on his side, his hot blood spraying--

--And then he was slumping down onto the bed, gurgling out a last breath, and Zevran was pulling his own knife out of the Qunari's thick neck. The Antivan scrambled over the fallen mercenary and caught the Warden's elbows awkwardly as she started to slump down as well, letting her fall against him instead. Neither of them lost their grips on their knives, dropping to their knees on the bed, and for once Zevran had nothing witty to say.

The Warden just tried to breathe around the pain of her ribs, and wondered dimly if that was _blood_ she was tasting. Maybe, maybe not. She couldn't tell.

Alistair _and_ the dog scrambled up onto the bed as well, Alistair asking if she was okay and Jethro sniffing her over. Everything was blurry and hard to understand, and the Warden couldn't help but to snort in faint, disoriented amusement. "..._So_," she rasped out dryly, still slumped into Zevran's half-embrace, her cheekbone digging painfully into hard leather armor -- and he was being _awfully_ quiet, she noticed -- "...two elves, a Chantry-raised human, and a mabari walk into the most prestigious whorehouse in all of Denerim... and..."

The Warden coughed, suddenly, and her eyes went unfocused at the sight of her own fresh blood spattered on Zevran's armor. "And... Morrigan's going to _kill_ me..."

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.18.2010:

Kaioku/Sixthdeadlysin (Bioware boards/DeviantArt) drew artwork of Alley and Zev, and I dfsdfds love it. You can see it at: "tinyurl . com / y5du3bw" just take out the spaces and don't include the quotes. How awesome is that? :D And yes, Eddie, that last bit was supposed to be funny, at least in my sick dark way. ;) But I suppose you're used to my humor by now.

Onwards! Folks wanted a continuation from Zev's side, and so that's what you're getting. Also, Alley's name gets used for the first time. I think it should start sneaking its way in there, simply because if this is a "romance", things are getting a bit more personal, hey?

Reviews are loved forever! I need to get this thing up on AWN so I can write out replies! :)

- - - - -  
**We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.**  
-- Andr Berthiaume

_"..._So_," she rasped out dryly, still slumped into Zevran's half-embrace, her cheekbone digging painfully into hard leather armor -- and he was being _awfully_ quiet, she noticed -- "...two elves, a Chantry-raised human, and a mabari walk into the most prestigious whorehouse in all of Denerim... and..."_

_The Warden coughed, suddenly, and her eyes went unfocused at the sight of her own fresh blood spattered on Zevran's armor. "And... Morrigan's going to _kill_ me..."_

* * *

Zevran would have found the comment amusing, had it not come from a pair of blood-flecked lips and been directly followed by a cough that sprayed a fine mist of scarlet across his armor. As it was? No. No, not very funny to him just now.

"Find Morrigan and Wynne," he snapped at Alistair and the dog both, finally dropping his daggers onto the bed, "and bring them here. Hurry!"

"But I--" Alistair started to protest, although Jethro merely whined worriedly once and then bounded off, already on the search.

"No. I had to run away for help last time, now it is _your_ turn. _Go!_" Zevran's tone was stripped of all humor, hard and sharp like the edge of a knife. Taliesen would have recognized it _immediately._ Wisely, Alistair scrambled off the bed and out of the room after the dog without further prompting. He wasn't at all stupid like Morrigan liked to claim, but he was definitely overly-emotional, and Zevran knew that in situations like this one, that did little but get in the way.

Besides, _he_ was already the one holding their Warden up. Shifting her around just so that Alistair could be the one to watch over his fellow recruit would be foolish _and_ a waste of time.

"That bad, huh?" the Warden croaked out, and Zevran looked down, adjusting his hold on her elbows to slip one arm beneath hers and help support her against him. Moving her too much could cause more damage, depending on the internal wound, so they stayed on their knees, cooling Qunari corpse beside them.

As for her question, he didn't answer, which he knew was unfortunatly answer enough in itself.

"It isn't... my lungs," the Warden rasped slowly, words half-muffled against his armor, "no... air bubbles in the blood I coughed up. It's not my heart, or I'd be... dying." Zevran didn't realize he'd shifted his other arm, cradling the back of her head in his hand, until she added even quieter, as though speaking hurt more than just her throat, "...I'm _not dying_, Zevran."

He swallowed. "Of... of course you are not," the assassin tried to make his tone light, throw in a small laugh, but it failed miserably. Even to his own ears, it sounded more like he'd swallowed something wrong. "You are far too stubborn for that. I should know, after all."

"I can't yet," she muttered softly, and Zevran realized that she'd dropped her knives as well, finally, when she looped an arm loosely around his waist. For support, or for him? "Too much left to do... Arls to kill, Blights to stop... I know what Wynne means. There's always... always... something..." and another very small cough, which sounded suspiciously damp.

"...Help me move," the Warden rasped, "I think it's just... digging in like this."

"Very well," Zevran tried his best to keep the helplessness out of his voice. This was torture; he almost wished he _had_ been the one to run off for help again. At least he'd be doing something to help, contributing somehow to her chances!

And so he helped her move, clenching his jaw tighter and tighter at every pained wrench. So many people had died in front of him over the years, by his own hand or otherwise, that he'd very rarely seen someone survive anything that should have killed them. This was twice from the same injury that his Warden courted death, and he couldn't help but feel that she was going to slip away at any moment, right out from his grasp.

If she made it this time, Zevran vowed to himself that she wouldn't leave the inn again until she was proclaimed healthy, even if he had to _sit_ on her to ensure it. Although, he decided, if she survived he might just do that anyway... and she was welcome to try to beat him up for it, as long as it meant she was around to do so!

"And what about after the Arl and the Blight?" Zevran asked, once the Warden had been lowered back to sit upright against the headboard of the bed. Her arm hadn't moved from around his waist, and so he had little choice but to sink down beside her in the process, awkwardly facing her with his shoulder butted up against the wall. It was that or break away, which... granted, would have been as easy as straightening back up, but...

"I don't know," the other elf let her head roll back against the wall above the headboard, looking up at the ceiling. "Aren't you the one who's always saying we could all die doing this, anyway?"

"And now I take it all back. You are far too stubborn to die, after all," Zevran said it a bit more firmly than he'd intended, surprising even himself, and the hand he set on her shoulder squeezed unconsciously. _You can't die. Please don't die._ Traveling at the Warden's side was the closest to freedom he'd ever experienced in his entire life, and she was the only person in all of Thedas who'd ever saved him from anything. If she died now...

"Mnh," it wasn't quite an agreement, and the Warden's eyes closed, "yet, anyway."

A chill ran down and then back up Zevran's spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He knew that kind of talk far too intimately. "_No,_" he bit out, "absolutely _not._"

The Warden cracked an eye back open, and looked at him. It was slightly glazed from the pain, but still sharp and aware. And yet, she said nothing. It spoke volumes to the Crow.

"You are _not_ going to save the world from the Blight and then just... just go off somewhere and _die,_ Alleyana!" Zevran snapped, gesturing sharply through the air, "I... it would--!" he was such a hypocrite, the taste of it bitter in his mouth, but he'd also never saved anyone before. His own death would have meant nothing to anyone in the world when he'd first thrown himself at the two Grey Wardens and their group, back on that dusty road. That she might choose to... it was wrong. Absolutely _wrong._ "...No. Truly? Why would you be so _foolish?_" his voice was suddenly absolutely, utterly bitter.

"I..." the Warden had opened both of her eyes and turned her head to look up at him at some point during all of this. "I am no martyr, Zevran," the pain in her voice worried him. Was her wound worsening, unseen beneath the skin? "But..." her expressions were often understated and subtle, but this one was difficult to place. Pain, yes, but was that... sadness? The Warden never looked sad. Grim, yes, determined, angry, tired...

The moment was over quickly, however, as she turned her head away and coughed a light sheen of blood into her gloved palm. She slumped sideways against him afterward, breathing shallowly. "...You're the only one I ever let do this, you know," her voice was as rough as ever, but... faint. Small.

"Do what?" Zevran stared down at the top of her head. His brief anger had waned, leaving him just feeling... tired.

"This," she mumbled quietly, "any of this. That weird arm-link thing you like doing now, the... the _talking._"

"Ah," he sighed, "deflection, is it? Very well. You speak to the others regularly, yes?" Zevran remembered her saying much the same to him, one time, and he wondered what _her_ response would be.

"I listen," the Warden corrected, "I... prompt. I don't... talk. I just... figured you should know, in case you were wrong about me being too stubborn," she tightened her arm around his waist when he began to protest, cutting him off, "And now... you're the only one who's called me by name since I was conscripted. So... thank you, I guess."

"No thanks are needed," Zevran said very, very quietly. "Truly."

There was a moment in which both were quiet, and her arm didn't loosen around his waist, and if he closed his eyes Zevran thought he could perhaps pretend that this wasn't a dire situation they were in, and that perhaps--

But as always with these moments, it didn't last nearly long enough. Her arm loosened, and she slumped harder against him, and the Antivan felt his heart plummet to the floor beneath the bed.

He was checking her pulse with slightly-shaking fingertips against her throat when the others burst in through the open door. _Finally._

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.21.2010:

When the City Elf is about to go off and get married in the origin story, his/her father gives him/her a present. "Adaia's Boots", and their description if you inspect them is as follows: _Some mothers knit booties for their unborn babes. Adaia, who was much more practical, made leather boots adorned with patterns of vines._

Also, I usually try to avoid this as a simple matter of style, but I left one line from the game dialogue in here because it's such a poignant one. I don't think anyone will find it too jarring. :)

Reviews equal much love from the Aro, so thank you! :D

- - - - -  
**Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.**  
-- Josephine Hart

Zevran knocked lightly on the Warden's door, and pushed it open when nothing was heard on the other side for several long moments. He'd already learned over the course of their stay here that a lack of comment was as good as an invitation when it came to the other elf, so long as the lock wasn't thrown. The Antivan slipped inside and closed the door behind him, before turning to find the Warden seated on a stool in the middle of the room, her back to him, sunlight streaming in through the window cutting across the floor and one of her shoulders.

Still in regular clothing, the Warden was trying to pull her mess of a braid back up into a bun, and frustration was written in every line of her posture. Zevran stepped forward.

"It occurs to me that you should just redo that," he noted, stepping around her side to look at her face, one of his eyebrows raised. "That is quite possibly the worst state I have ever seen it in, my dear Grey Warden," and indeed, it was true: whole loops of hair were loose, and the entirety was frayed and fuzzy instead of a single smooth rope. He'd seen it get pretty bad without being redone before, but always in its customary bun. The assassin had never seen it unwound, let alone un-braided.

She shot him an annoyed look, and silently crooked the gloved fingers of one hand at him like claws, the other holding her progress on the bun.

"Ah," Zevran felt a little foolish. He watched with some fascination as she gave up on her current attempt and let go of the braid, which untwisted itself and fell much further than he'd expected. It would reach her knees if she stood, and he entertained himself with trying to imagine how long it was when it was loose. "How do you normally manage, then?"

"Leliana finally can't take it anymore and begs to fix it," the Warden shrugged, voice scraping over the words, "so... I let her."

Zevran raised an eyebrow, and circled around behind the elven woman, lifting the end of her braid from where it nearly brushed the floor and rubbing it between his fingers. "And what about before Leliana?" he asked, warm amusement leaking into his voice.

"...My cousin finally couldn't take it anymore and begged to fix it. So, I let her," stated his Warden in such a dry manner that it elicited a sharp, delighted laugh from the Antivan.

"So I see! And so you are a masterful manipulator in disguise, after all!" Zevran remarked, running the frayed braid between his fingers over and over. The length of it was a pleasant surprise; he rather liked long hair on either gender, although it didn't suit everyone. "And now my question is simple: may _I_ beg to fix it?" The Warden slanted him a questioning glance over her shoulder, and he grinned down at her. "Please? I beg _so_ very nicely, my dear."

"You're asking... to _beg,_ to fix my hair," she didn't make it questioning, although confusion was obvious enough on her face. "I... uh," and there was realization, and if he squinted he thought her cheeks may have warmed a little. The Warden turned sharply away. "Arainai, quit being crazy at me."

Arainai, was it? He'd scored a hit! Zevran felt his grin widen at the thought that she might actually like the idea, even if she wouldn't admit it. "Oooh, but I truly enjoy it! May I please, please-please-please, fix your hair? I shall kneel at your feet first, if you like. In fact, I insist!" But she put an arm out to the side to block him when he went to step around her to do so, and eyed him sidelong.

"No," the Warden said quietly. "None of that. Braid my hair if you insist, but... none of that."

"Oh? You deny the idea has merit? I assure you, I do everything better on my knees," Zevran purred, her long braid still in his hand. He wove it between his fingers idly, all the loose ends that stuck out brushing tantalizingly against his skin. And Taliesen had wondered why he wore fingerless gloves! He was just very... tactile, and covering his hands completely was almost like wearing a blindfold. The Antivan plucked at the leather tie wrapped securely around the end of the long rope of hair, undoing the knots and... leaning his hips just a little bit into the arm barring his path still.

"I.. that..." she fumbled for words, and he smirked down at the top of her head as he began undoing the long braid. His Warden preferred to not all-out lie, he'd noticed, outside of moments of necessity to their mission... and it was oddly endearing. It certainly made him wonder if it wasn't a tiny part of why she spoke so little to anyone else, and _that_ interesting fact still made him feel just a little bit... accomplished, he thought, although he wasn't sure if that was quite the word for it. Warm. Flattered? "Just don't do it," she finally managed, "I won't have you acting like some beaten elven servant around me."

Zevran blinked down at her in surprise, pausing in his efforts to un-weave her braid. "That sort of thing truly bothers you, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't bother you?" the Warden asked, tilting her head a little so that she could look up at him out of the corner of her eye. "We met under very uneven circumstances. You offered servitude, but I don't want it. Never have. So you acting like that..."

"Ahh," he nodded, and slipped around behind her again, resuming work on her hair. Zevran ran his fingers through it as he loosened the braid, smoothing tangles. It was very clean, at least. "You worry that I may begin to see it as what is expected of me, yes? No need," the smirk returned slowly, unseen by her but audible in his voice, "I know well the differences between serious and... play."

Did one of her ears twitch at that? He chuckled deeply to himself, and finished undoing the long braid in silence, running his fingers through it a few more times for good measure before idly spreading it out across her shoulders. It was indeed longer when loose, and those interesting premature gray streaks of hers ran the entire length, vanishing in the deep brown mess and reappearing sporadically.

"Why do you never wear it down?" Zevran asked, smoothing it down her back. She remained perfectly still under his idle attentions.

"Very practical, Zevran," the Warden snorted.

"Then why keep it so long?" he countered, "If practicality is what matters most..."

At first, he didn't think he'd get an answer. The other elf was very quiet for a time, and then said, "My mother's hair was long, even though she was a warrior," Zevran felt his eyebrows climb. This was the most personal thing he could remember her ever saying. But before he could remark, she added, "--and, it's damn good helmet padding."

"Of course," he chuckled. "Yes, I see. Ever the pragmatic one, aren't you?" And, just because he could, Zevran ran his fingers through her hair yet again, although he had to bend to reach the lower half. "Well then, my most practical friend, I assume you have a brush of some sort, yes? This will work best with one."

When she pointed to her pack on the nearby bed, he left her alone long enough to go rummaging through it with nimble fingers, finding a battered excuse for a brush tangled up in a spare shirt. "So, if I may ask..." he questioned hesitantly as he strolled back over, brush in hand, and began in on her hair. It really was a shame that she never left it down, it softened her severe, jarring appearance just a little bit. Hers was still not a pretty face, but it was certainly not horrifying. "...You said 'was', I believe, in regards to your mother. Did something unfortunate happen, then?"

"You could say that," the Warden's ruined voice was dark, but not particularly closed or guarded, "she was killed by shem guards when I was young. For being 'a troublemaker'."

"Which means she didn't do something they wanted, yes," Zevran sighed, "an unfortunately common tale."

"Yeah, well," she held quite still as he brushed and gathered the heavy mass of hair into equal parts, although he could see that she was looking down at her gloved hands in her lap, palms upturned. "There's reasons I'd rather they fear me."

"Hm," it was noncommittal, and he brushed his fingers against long pointed ears as he pretended to smooth her hair back. "Are those the same guards that ruined your hands, then?" Zevran hazarded a guess. It was difficult to imagine her rushing into such an obviously-losing fight for anything but the most extreme of reasons. The Warden was reckless, dangerously so, but she wasn't at all stupid.

"...Yeah," he could see over her shoulder that she flexed her fingers a little, as though in memory of hammer-blows. "I managed to beat one of their faces in with a brick first, though. If I'd had the means, maybe I'd have hired an assassin or four instead, but as it was... the brick had to do."

"A most practical view on assassination, my dear Grey Warden," Zevran chuckled deeply, pleased at the thought that he may have gotten such a job himself, had the world been quite different. She would have had to have been reasonably wealthy, to afford the Crows, and he would have had to have been attached to a cell in Denerim... but it was still an interesting thought. An alternative universe to their own, perhaps.

"And what about yours?" the Warden's ruined voice cut into his thoughts, "Was she killed as well?"

"Ah..." Zevran paused for a moment, his fingers holding the three carefully-divided locks of hair apart. "Yes, you could say that," and even _he_ couldn't keep his tone light at this, "...she died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were."

The Warden had been holding still, but there was still and then there was _still_, like a statue made of unbending steel. She remained like the latter for a brief moment, and then twisted part-way on the stool, forcing him to let go of her hair and lose his progress. It was worth it, though, to feel a strong, slender arm snake around his hips and draw him into an awkward half-hug against her bony shoulder. She didn't look at him.

Under any other circumstances, he would have leered and flexed his hips suggestively. As it was, he hesitated for a long moment and then set a hand on top of her head in silent thanks, surprised and touched at the rare display of affection... or perhaps sympathy, from the terse woman. Especially now that she had pointed out that she didn't really touch anyone else in their group, or even truly speak to them... he was, for the very first time in his life, an _exception._ And a good one, at that.

And so in payment, he opened his mouth and continued without needing to be prompted, and he told her the story of a Dalish woman who fell in love with a woodcutter and left her clan behind... and of a ragged little boy who clung to a secret pair of beautifully embroidered Dalish gloves late at night, staring at them in fascination and wonder. When Zevran was done, he awkwardly made a crack about how silly it was, to have gloves mean so much, her stony silence unnerving him a little. What did she think of all this? He couldn't even see her face.

A moment went by, and she unhooked her arm from around his hips and pointed back at her pack on the bed again. Bewildered, Zevran paced over obediantly and retrieved it. Not at all sure what she wanted him to do with it, he placed it on the floor at her feet, and watched as she leaned forward and dug through the large bag. The start of his braiding slipped free the rest of the way, the three divisions re-combining, and he shook his head. Ah well, all the more excuse to linger and have his way with her scalp!

The Warden straightened back up with a pair of folded, soft leather boots in hand, adorned with the pattern of vines. These, she held up for him to take and examine, which he did, giving her a questioning look as he did so. "Adaia's boots," said the other elf, "the only things I have of her besides my fading memories," she looked away, awkward. "So no, I don't think you and your gloves were silly at all."

Zevran rubbed the soft leather between his fingers, much as he had her hair, and looked at the worn pair of boots in his hands in a new light. The coincidence was... startling. "She wasn't Dalish... just another city brat like us," added the Warden when he was silent for too long, "she taught me the basics of fighting before she was killed. I don't remember much else about her anymore."

_Like us,_ she'd said. He kind of liked that. Zevran bent to carefully place the boots beside her pack, and then slipped around behind her again, brush in hand. "You see?" he chuckled, "This only proves it. We were absolutely _meant_ to get along!"

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 05.11.2010:

Yep, I'm still alive! Long story short: writer's block.

Long story medium: my left hand was mangled for a week and so I did Zevran fanart in the interim (which can be found on my deviantart account, linked in my profile), and then while struggling with this chapter I ended up making another AMV for a different fandom (youtube is also in profile). My brain's been wanting to do visual stuff instead of text stuff, it seems. My birthday also came and went on cinco de mayo with the usual argh-drama in tow, and that stalled me for a few days on _everything._

And for the longest time after my hand, none of my ideas were pre-Taliesen! I started many potential future bits... but had nothing to work with in the current timeline. *armflails* IO isn't sequential, but there's only so far I'm willing to jump forward now that it's officially a romance. At any rate, I'm probably not returning to the "new chapter every two or three days" schedule, (I say this in the hopes that my creativity will burst back open just to spite me!) but I'm not dead. :) I might do an art for IO at some point, probably the cheek-touch from the Fade. We'll see~

Posting this chapter while stupid-tired, so I apologize in advance for any errors. I didn't want to hold onto it for another day or two after such a long pause between chapters!

Reviews are loved forever!

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**Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary.**  
-- Mark Twain

"We should not be doing this," Zevran cautioned, wary, as he was pulled away from camp by the pull of crooked, armored fingers tightly gripping his wrist. He would have to decline if she was intending for them to have one of their usual fights, but he offered no resistance to being pulled along anyway, pleased to have her to himself again for the first time since Denerim. Privacy was difficult while traveling the roads of Ferelden!

He was far less pleased with the situation when she suddenly spun on her heel and brought her plate-encased arm up across his chest, shoving him _back_ against a tree so hard that it knocked the wind right out of him.

The Warden's emotions always seemed so... understated and mild on the surface that it was difficult to judge exactly _what_ was wrong, and so Zevran held very still and just concentrated on trying to refill his lungs. He brought his hands up at his sides, empty, fingers splayed, the universal sign of surrender. Whatever he'd done, he hadn't done it! He was pretty sure! Or at least, somewhat sure! Kind of sure? The longer her silence, the less sure he admittedly was.

"...You've been _protecting_ me," the Warden's ruined voice finally grated out, after she made him stew for a long moment.

The hard plate pressing against his chest was actually quite uncomfortable, even through the hardened leather of his own armor. It alone spoke volumes for the amount of force she was pinning him with. She was both shorter and slighter than he was, but the amount of pure brute strength she could wield was staggering. Zevran could only lift her shield easily if he used both hands, but she whipped it around one-handed during combat like it was an art-form!

What flesh she possessed was made almost entirely of wiry muscle and whipcord, with just enough padding to keep her on this side of well-defined, instead of sculpted from stone like a man in similar condition would have been. And he would have been lying through his teeth if he'd claimed to find it unattractive. Every time he managed to pin her to the ground in their fights, however temporarily, the ensuing struggle was often its own reward!

"Why?" the Warden demanded, interrupting his distracted thoughts, "I told you not to do anything stupid..."

"I fail to see how that could be stupid," Zevran countered, hands still up in surrender. "You protect all of us, my dear. Why should I not return the favor?"

"No one protects me," snapped the Warden. "No one."

"Is that so?" the Antivan risked putting a hand on her arm when he felt the pressure across his chest lessen, just a little. The plate was slightly warm beneath his fingers, some of her heat having reached the metal through the padding inside it after a full day's travel and one skirmish. It was almost an extension of the other elf, and he wondered just how relieved she must feel to be wearing armor again, after having to let her ribs recover for so long without its weight. "And what makes you certain that I did?" Sometimes, he just couldn't help himself.

"You," she snarled, and grabbed his arm with her free hand, digging armored fingers into the still-sore place that had been a grievous wound only hours ago. Having two healers in the camp was marvelous, really; the bone-deep gash through the leather over his forearm was now barely worse than a bone-deep bruise. His armor needed mending, but his flesh had been knit back together quite handily!

Zevran reflexively relaxed into the pain of her grip, just like any good Crow, the instinct hard-won through far too much practice under assessing eyes. "...Ah, yes. That," he murmured, eyes half-lidding almost lazily.

"Yes, _that,_" a final squeeze, and then the Warden let go of him entirely, pulling away from the hand still resting lightly on her armor and pacing several steps away from him. "Don't do stupid things like _that,_" her voice scratched its way over the words, "I'm in plate; I won't cut that easily."

"It was aimed for your throat," Zevran argued absently, rubbing at his abused flesh while no one would see it, "even armor can only do so much, my dear."

"I was _fine,_ Arainai," the use of his surname gave him pause. Normally she only used it when uncomfortable... such as when he was flirting with her in one way or another. Pondering the implications of this, he dropped his hand and paced forward to her side, peering intently at her expression.

She looked genuinely... angry, and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. "I owe you an apology, then," Zevran sighed after a moment's thought, watching her gaze snap back to his face as she half-turned.

Taking advantage of the moment, he scooped up one of her armored hands up in his, and bowed low over it, formal and courtly. Brushing his lips against the small metal plates that made up the back of her gauntlet, he murmured, "...because I do not intend to stop, even should it offend your honor, or your sense of duty..." the Warden yanked her hand out of his grasp, but Zevran had expected that. He straightened, and tipped his head a little to one side. "There are very few things on which I will not bend, my Grey Warden. This is one of them."

"You will die," her ruined voice grated over the words just the same as any other, her tone bleak and unquestioning, and her eyes hard with anger. "Everyone who has ever stepped between myself and danger has _died._ Don't add to my regrets."

Zevran rocked back a little on his heels at that, unconsciously, fingers splaying at his sides as though to reach out for balance. "I have no intention of _dying,_" he finally managed after a tiny moment of recovery, "but I also have no intention of letting _you_ do so, either. Why is this such a bad thing? You did not complain of it before..."

"You weren't shoving yourself between myself and darkspawn axes, before," the Warden's gaze lowered to his recent injury, where the hardened leather over his forearm was still slit open, the flesh beneath almost blackened from bruising. Silently, the Antivan held his arm out under her inspection, and was a little surprised when she took it in one gauntleted hand, armored fingers curling with an unexpected gentleness under the limb in support.

"Better my arm than your head, no?" Zevran argued quietly, watching as she peeled back the edges of the abused leather to look at the bruise she'd been squeezing only moments before. It was a good thing he was so durable! He felt a grin tug at his lips, "You know," the Antivan noted idly, leaning forward a little into her inspection, "if you would like to see more of my bruises, you have only to ask... I have a most _interesting_ one forming on my left hipbone--"

"No," she cut him off, awkwardly, but she didn't drop his arm as he'd fully expected her to. Instead, she slanted him a sideways glance. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" he chuckled, knowing full well what she meant. "Propose the removal of clothing, both my own and yours?" Zevran leaned closer still, wanting to see how far he could push his luck, "Perhaps I just enjoy your eyes on my bare skin, yes? And wish to encourage more for you to explore? And it would only be fair if I was allowed to do the same, of course..."

The Warden held her ground, brow slightly furrowed. There was a peculiar, thin scar that crossed one of her eyebrows, old and faded. She had many such marks on her face, and he had entertained himself with the idea of finding out if the rest of her was similarly adorned.

Bending his elbow to allow himself to move, he stepped deliberately nearer, watching intently as she _almost_ recoiled. But she didn't, and so he smirked and leaned in to lick one of those almost-invisible lines on her cheek, from her jaw almost to her eye. Interestingly, she held utterly still, although her eyes had widened and he was fairly sure that she held her breath. Pushing, pushing, always pushing, searching for the boundaries she set, Zevran lifted his captured arm to place his fingertips against her neck, feeling that her pulse was hammering at her skin.

It was actually a little disconcerting that she simply continued to stare at him when he pulled back again, remaining perfectly still except to drop the hand that had been holding his arm up. "Have you forgotten the steps to our little dance?" he asked innocently, wanting _some_ sort of response, "This is the part where you run off, and bruise my pride."

"You didn't answer my question," the Warden replied simply, as though this was a normal conversation. "Why do you always do this? You know it isn't required, and you can't mean it."

"And why would you say that?" Zevran tsked, "I very much mean it. Do you wish me to stop?"

But then his _Warden_ was leaning closer, suddenly, and it was _Zevran's_ turn to hold absolutely still, watching with half-lidded eyes as she paused... and then tipped her head up to brush a chaste kiss across his cheekbone.

He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until she stepped away, and he didn't think to exhale until she'd vanished into the trees on the way back to camp, leaving his question strangely unanswered.

Although, that was perhaps all the answer he truly needed.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 05.17.2010:

I used a banter line in this one, mostly by accident... but then I left it in. :D And one dialogue line from a non-party NPC. Sometimes it's appropriate, I think, even if I try to avoid it most of the time. Also, I took out the reference to the Legion armor in a previous chapter, since I seem to be mostly putting these in order now.

Reviews are loved and loved! I'm sorry these chapters are always so short.

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**Sometimes you have to get to know someone really well to realize you're really strangers.**  
-- Mary Tyler Moore

His Grey Warden _reveled_ in combat, thrilled in the adrenalin and the red-hot rush of bloodshed. That she did not enjoy killing was a point of some dark amusement for the Crow, but her love of the fight itself endeared her to him all the same. And so it was that he watched quite closely as another dwarven opponent entered the arena amidst the cheering and the master of ceremonies' booming voice, as the two made their remarks -- hers terse and simple, of course -- and the flash of an almost-grin as she pulled her helmet back on over her head.

She was thoroughly enjoying herself, and Zevran had never wanted to kiss a woman so much as he did right then. Gone was the strange edge of melancholy, or the hard gleam in her eye; for the moment at least, she seemed almost... whole. It shone a strange new light on their own fist-fights, if combat was how she best fit within her own skin.

He didn't realize just how obvious his thoughtful staring was getting until Alistair elbowed him in the ribs, and the Antivan glanced at him to find the Fereldan grinning like a fool. "Remembering your taste of that?" the human asked, as the distinctive sound of a shield hitting metal rang out, just barely audible in the din of the crowd. Knowing his Warden, it was the _shield_ hitting the _weapon_ more than it was the other way around. She was a fan of aggressive defense, to say the least.

"Must you remind me with such relish?" Zevran asked him, feigning a wince as he looked back out over the fighting. "My ears still ring from it, some nights!"

"Ha, I'll bet," he didn't realize that Alistair had said anything else until he was elbowed in the side again, this time harder, making him glance over and up again. "What's going on with you two?" Alistair asked, "Now that I've got you where she can't hear for once. You two are almost inseparable."

"Ah, my good friend Alistair," Zevran chuckled softly, gaze drifting back to the fight as the elven Warden knocked her foe to the ground and advanced on him. The dwarf had lost and he didn't even know it yet. "Is this jealousy I detect?"

"No! Well, maybe..." the almost sulky honesty drew Zevran's attention again, and he cocked an eyebrow at the would-be Templar. "Well," Alistair continued awkwardly, "not like _that_, it's just... we're the only two Grey Wardens left in all of Ferelden. And we barely even get along. I'd hoped... she and I could be friends, perhaps. But maybe that's stupid of me."

"Perhaps," Zevran agreed, reminded of all the disapproving looks Alistair had shot their leader after nearly every encounter with a stranger. He wasn't going to be the one to say it, however. But it was an interesting reminder, too, that no matter how... _not close_ they seemed to him, used to easily sauntering in and out of beds as he was, the elven Warden was even more distant with almost all of the others. She seemed to be befriending Morrigan, a human raised far away from society, and had a sort of unspoken camaraderie with Sten, but otherwise it was himself and the dog who seemed the closest to her by far.

"What happened the last time we were here, anyway?" Alistair asked, glancing out at the fight as the crowd roared and another dwarf was drug out of the arena by his fellows. Their leader actually _bowed_ to the crowd, Zevran noted with amusement. He'd never seen her in such a good mood, even if her helmet was still on, concealing her face. Violence truly suited the taciturn woman. "I thought everything was going fine and then she just up and hauled us out of here."

"Ah, you were not with us when we visited the Shaparate," Zevran chuckled softly, folding his arms, "it seems Prince Bhelen was playing us with false documents, and our leader did not appreciate it. I believe she hoped they would resolve this throne issue on their own in our absence, but... apparently not. In Antiva," he added conversationally, as though they weren't surrounded by dwarves, "half of the assembly would be long dead by now, if they didn't get the message early and come to an agreement on their own."

"Really?" Alistair's eyes were a little wide, "You just... kill off politicians to make them decide on things?"

"Oh yes, you would be surprised at how effective it is!" the elf laughed, "Sometimes no one steps forward to become King until we do just that. Never let it be said that the Crows are not patriots!"

"You... frighten me a little sometimes, you know that?" Alistair said slowly, "You and your whole insane country."

"Oh now, it is not so bad, Alistair," Zevran smirked, "if we went through all of this every time we needed a new King or Queen, when would we have the time to drink? Even the dwarves are half-sober by now, look at them!" Of course, they wouldn't need a new monarch so often if they stopped assassinating theirs... but that was beside the point. At least Antivans got things done.

Their leader had taken down another opponent while they spoke, and was now being advanced on by a pair of twin dwarves. Zevran uncrossed his arms and watched the fight unfold, the Warden singling out the dual-wielder of the pair first without hesitation, turning on the other only once the first had been taken down for the count. Watching her versus another shield-user was an exercise in contrast; others used their shields almost entirely for defense, but the Warden used hers even more than her sword.

And when it came time for her to name a second, one fight later, Zevran was pleasantly surprised to be the one called. He had expected her to take one of the mages, which would have been the purely pragmatic choice. But no... she wanted _Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows_. Flowers and poetry could have never been so sweet.

* * *

She'd zeroed in on his location as though a beacon had been lit.

When they found Ruck, Zevran lurked to one side of the group, smirking faintly to himself when the lost dwarf called their leader _pretty lady_, crooning about her pretty hair -- like metal, and dark leather -- and her pretty pretty eyes -- deep blue like smoke. The Antivan watched the Warden closely during all of this, puzzling a little over her strange care in speaking to the afflicted dwarf, her ruined voice almost soft for how quietly she suddenly used it.

The more he observed the dwarf, however, the more disturbed he grew. The man's mind was gone, clearly scooped out by the disease running through him. It was a horrific thing to contemplate. "You know, do you not?" the dwarf said to his Warden, pulling him out of his musing, "Ruck sees, yes. He sees the darkness inside you."

Zevran watched as the Warden went strangely still, and as she then bowed her head for a moment. "Yes," she said in that strangely quiet way, "and someday I... yes, I understand."

The Antivan did not hide his stare when the Warden glanced his way, and his stomach clenched sickeningly as she offered him a strange, sharp-edged little half-smile, barely more than a twitch of her thin lips. She went back to speaking with the dwarf, exchanging coin and items with him as though he was still a person and not a... husk. An empty husk, burned hollow by the very darkspawn flesh he had consumed to survive.

Zevran could feel eyes boring into him, and he met Morrigan's stare with his own as their leader shrugged her new shield onto her back. The Legion of the Dead emblem grinned out at him from her back as the dwarf mentioned that he would remember the scent of the pretty lady's hair. Utterly repulsed, the Antivan turned and paced away, moving a few dozen feet down the sinuous tunnel to wait for the others to finish their... business. Unconsciously, he rubbed his arms as though to warm them, feeling like his flesh would crawl right off his bones if he let it.

When the rest followed a few long moments later, he stepped out into their path, making the group halt. The taste of the entire encounter still bitter in his mouth, Zevran made his proposal to put the dwarf out of his misery, citing that he had seen poison victims in better condition. His mind was gone and the rest of him would not be far behind, the dwarf was already dead. Now it just remained to see how his ending came for him. To just leave him here to rot... it didn't sit well with the Crow, for some reason.

The Warden waved the others on around the next bend, and then stepped closer to Zevran, her eerie stare suddenly just a little bit worrisome to him, as though they were strangers all over again. It was just like when her stare had bothered him from the other end of a log beside the fire, mere days after his life had been spared. "You truly feel this is best?" she asked quietly, just as she had spoken to the dwarf, ruined voice still rough but somehow muted.

"I do," Zevran confirmed, not looking away despite his sudden unease.

"..." the Warden drew a knife from her belt, and reached up to loosen her braid from its customary tightly-wound bun. Zevran watched in complete silence as she selected a lock of hair from the end, one equally gray and brown, and sliced it free. "Make it quick and painless," she said simply, and held out the bit of her hair, "and leave this for him."

Zevran curled his fingers around the hair, opening his mouth to say something... anything... but he wasn't sure _what,_ and so he closed it mutely. The Antivan instead offered her a short, tight bow, and then slid into stealth, creeping back up the tunnel to his new-found target with the Warden's hair in his hand. Behind him, he heard her continue away from him, moving to re-join the other two.

Ruck never even knew what hit him.

-- --: -x- :-- --  
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.  
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.  
Never steal if you value your spleen.


End file.
